


We Get By Just Fine

by acopingmechanism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, But not exactly, Child Abuse, Childhood sexual assault, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Guaranteed happy ending, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Assault, and not romanticizing/fetishizing rape, author is Working Some Things Out, but it will be heavily referenced, can be seen as a redemption arc for petunia, just getting these tags out first because this is SERIOUSLY triggering, the assault against the boys won't be described in detail, think I make it pretty clear but just in case it needs to be spelled out, vernon dursley is a pedophile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acopingmechanism/pseuds/acopingmechanism
Summary: "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours first.Let's compare scars - I'll tell you whose is worse."---She'll do the right thing this time. For her son, for her nephew, for the memory of Lily, and for the eighteen-year-old girl she once was.---(*Please* read the author's note and the tags before you decide to proceed.)
Relationships: Dudley Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Petunia Evans Dursley/Severus Snape, Petunia Evans Dursley/Vernon Dursley, Vernon Dursley/Harry Potter
Comments: 104
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few important notes before we begin.  
> \- This fic is going to deal HEAVILY with sexual assault, both against two young children (by their uncle/father) and a teenage girl (non-incestuous), and its effects on their lives. There are also mentions of canon-compliant child abuse in general. If you feel like it’s a bad idea for you to read about any of what I mentioned above, please be safe and either skip this story or save it for a different moment. I don’t want to trigger anybody.  
> \- That being said, why am I writing this? Do my repressed memories finally want to rear their ugly heads? Do I want them to rear their ugly heads so I can at least understand why I am the way I am, and is that, maybe, why I’m writing this fic? Possibly. That’s why I made a whole separate account just for this kind of coping mechanism. If you somehow recognize my writing style and know what my other account is, please keep it to yourself.  
> \- Despite being written in third person, I should remind you that this is all from Petunia Evans-Dursley’s point of view. Any opinions expressed by the character are the character’s and not the author’s.  
> Please be careful, loves.  
> (Also. I'm not British. I tried my best to get the language right, but if you're British and you cringed at my attempt, I am very sorry.)

_1975_

_Petunia was tired._

_It felt like all she did was work, lately. Between an internship that would – allegedly – get her to the university she wanted, an uneventful but taxing job at the local ice cream parlour, and her sister being home for the summer, there was very little time to rest. Not that Lily herself was a nuisance; she kept to herself, going places with her freak friends and going on and on to Mum about her freak school, mostly ignoring Petunia. (She was aware it was her own fault. She was_ acutely _aware that it had been her who pushed Lily away, and Lily just hadn’t bothered to insist. It still provoked something jealous and bitter in her chest every time her sister spoke of magic, of an exciting world she would never be a part of, and she reacted the easy way – by lashing out. She was eighteen and admittedly a real bitch.)_

_No, Lily wasn’t the problem. The problem was the boy next door. The greasy one. The one who used to be just a mildly annoying neighbour who enabled and encouraged her sister’s freaky behaviour, who became Lily’s best friend when they were barely out of diapers. Who had become more and more of a_ different _type of freak as the years went by. Petunia had tried to warn her, but every attempt had been infuriatingly futile._

_“I know he’s got a crush”, Lily had rolled her eyes. “It’ll go away. He’s my friend.”_

_“He’s obsessed.”_

_“You’re mad, Tuney.”_

_Mad. The girl could shatter a vase without touching it, just from an angry outburst, and Petunia was somehow the mad one._

_Yet she_ wasn’t ** _._** _She saw him staring. From corners, sometimes. From across the street and into the living room when the two sisters were home alone. And Lily wasn’t even doing anything! She’d be sitting by the window with a book and a cup of tea, or playing cards with her friends, and the boy would just_ stare _. As soon as Petunia saw him and pointed him out, he would vanish, and Lily would once again roll her eyes and pat her sister’s shoulder. Insisting that she was paranoid._

_Paranoia sure as fuck didn’t explain the sight she came home to that night, after a rare but precious evening with her friends. Dorothy had dropped her off a block away from home – because the sound of the car door slamming might alert her parents to the fact that she was not, in fact, in her bed – and she’d walked the rest of the way, stumbling a little in her high heels but still utterly content._

_That’s when she saw something move in the big tree in the yard. The one that was as tall as the house, with big branches, where she and Lily would hide to scare each other when they were little children. The one that just happened to be right outside of her sister’s bedroom. It was an uncomfortably warm summer night without a single breeze in the air, and yet the leaves in a section of the tree were moving quite vigorously, as if there was someone hidden in the foliage._

_She glanced at the window first. Lily had left it open, as usual – “it’s a safe neighbourhood, what do you think is gonna happen?” – and was now fast asleep on her bed. Always the restless sleeper, she had kicked the sheets to the floor at some point during the night, and her nightgown had ridden up so far it was bunched up by her waist, exposing her knickers for anyone to see._

_Not anyone. All the neighbours were either sleeping or minding their own business. Except, of course, for the greasy boy sitting in the branches, staring into the window and masturbating like his life depended on it._

_She wanted to scream for him to leave. She wanted to go up and pull the curtains shut. She wanted to punch him. But he saw her before she could make up her mind, and then he had that stupid fucking wand pointed in her direction, and –_

_“_ Silencio _.”_

_The scream never left her throat._

_Furious, she began to try to climb the tree, but he used the wand again._

_“_ Petrificus.”

_She fell to the grass, limp and helpless. Unable to move or call for help. Unable to do_ anything _but lie on the ground, heart slamming in her chest, as Snape approached her, trousers still low enough that they hid nothing._

_“You will not say a word to Lily.” He ordered, then let out a small, quiet laugh. “Then again, I suppose you can’t say much of anything, can you?”_

_She couldn’t. The anger was quickly giving way to abject horror._

_“What’s the matter, little mudblood? Scared? Thought you weren’t scared of a – what’s the word you like to use? – a_ freak _like me. Now let’s see what we’re working with.”_

_He crouched next to her motionless body, then. Lifted her skirt. No, no, no._

_“I’d have expected a snotty bitch like you to wear proper knickers, not this lacy little thing. Expecting company, were you?” She wasn’t. She just liked to look pretty in the mirror. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it fucking_ mattered _. Petunia couldn’t move, but she could_ feel _everything; his cold and unwelcome hands shoving her legs apart and pressing the wand to her knickers, the air on her skin as the fabric tore away, leaving her most intimate parts completely exposed against her will._

_Her eyes were blurry with tears, but the image of the satisfied smirk on Snape’s face as he penetrated her arse with the wand was crystal-clear, carved into her mind like stone, just like the absolutely disgusting feeling of sharp, polished wood inside her._

_Whatever spell she was under had clearly done something to her smooth muscle too, otherwise she would have been sick already. Even more so when Snape pushed two fingers into her cunt with no preamble, pulling them out wet – a natural response from her body, despite her desperately wanting it all to be over. She was terrified and sick to her stomach and in_ pain _, but the boy took it as a sign of victory._

_“I knew you were enjoying yourself, you little whore.” He pushed her legs further apart and lined up his prick with her entrance; silently, she wished the spell would have also numbed her down. At least then it wouldn’t hurt. “Hell, you’re going to_ love _getting fucked by a wizard. Should be honoured I’m giving you the chance.”_

_It hurt._

_There was nothing she could do but look up at the night sky and wait until he was done. Useless and immobile. Completely at the mercy of her baby sister’s fifteen-year-old stalker. Trying to distract from the pain and humiliation of it all, she focused on what she could_ see _instead of what she felt; stars and trees and grass and – and then his face, when he grabbed her by the chin and held her head in a position where that was all she could see. His smug, greasy face, his slick black hair tickling her face where it touched her, his wide-open mouth, panting as he kept on fucking her._

_Until finally,_ finally _he pulled out. Still hard. Must’ve been worried about getting her pregnant, the bastard. Still straddling her, he pushed himself forward until his prick was just above her face and brought himself off like that, barely giving her time to close her eyes._

_Disgusting._ Disgusting _. Her face was fucking covered in it._

_“Look at that.” He observed, casually, as if he hadn’t just raped her. “Looks like you weren’t a whore after all.” And sure enough, when she opened her eyes, she saw that there was blood on his dick – her blood. Her_ virgin _blood. Later she would find it on her skirt, too, and have the immediate urge to burn the skirt until it was a pile of ash._

_From then it was a matter of seconds. Snape pulled the wand out of her arse. Muttered the word “_ finite”. _And then he was gone._

_Although the spell had been lifted, Petunia still couldn’t find it in herself to move._

* * *

1985

The memories don’t bother her anymore, really. Just a bad dream now and then – and for those, she has the sleeping pills, bless Doctor Rothman’s heart. She has a husband and a precious little five-year-old boy, and although she _also_ has Lily’s little freak son in the house, everything is okay, thank you very much.

Sometimes it isn’t. But she pushes it down. She’s good at that. A good wife, a good mother. (A terrible, terrible aunt, but it’s not like she’s trying to be any better. Unlike her unfortunately deceased sister, the boy is a constant source of trouble, and really, he’s lucky they didn’t just give him away to an orphanage.)

However, even Petunia, with her fantastic ability to pretend nothing is ever wrong, can’t deny that something is off these days. Something… Fishy.

Maybe it’s the boy. It’s always the boy, isn’t it? With all that _magic_ bullshit. He doesn’t know about it, of course; if they drill it into his head that magic isn’t real, maybe it’ll stick. If she drills it into _Vernon’s_ head, maybe it’ll stick too, and he won’t ever know about her sister, about magic, about spells that make you helpless and spells that get you murdered. But the weird things keep happening no matter what she says; Harry’s hair grows back as soon as she cuts it, sometimes the lights go out at random, and lately it’s only been getting more frequent. What is the matter with him? He’s a child. All he has to do is go to school, come home, and not cause trouble. And yet…

Yet she’s been having to change his sheets twice as often, because he keeps wetting them. She knows it’s not on purpose – if nothing else, for the _terrified_ look in his eyes every time he tells her he had an accident at night – but it’s infuriating. He’s _five_ already. He and Dudley both left diapers successfully at the age of _two_. Why on Earth is it coming back? Maybe she should take him to a doctor.

(No. What if the doctor finds magic in his blood sample or something? What if magical anatomy is somehow different, and then her carefully constructed cover is blown? She’d rather just keep washing the sheets. Hell, she’ll make the boy wash them. He’s the one who got them dirty in the first place. Maybe that’ll teach him to pee before he goes to sleep.)

Then there’s Dudley, who’s had the appetite of a small rhinoceros lately. He’s always been a big eater, and Petunia’s never complained, because her baby boy should be healthy. If he’s hungry, it means his little chunky body needs food, and if his body needs food, she’ll give it to him. For the past few months, though, it’s been so _much._ He eats like it’s a reflex and has lost an alarming amount of clothes in the span of a few months. Maybe she should take Duddykins to a doctor, instead of worrying about Harry pissing the bed.

(Oh God, oh _God,_ what if the doctor finds magic in _her son_?)

(That’s it. No doctors.)

It’s Vernon, however, who puzzles her the most. He’s been so… _Chipper._ Cooperative, even. Kissing her goodnight. Offering to do the laundry every now and then. (Mind you, this is a man who doesn’t pick up his empty plate from the dinner table.) He doesn’t even throw a fit anymore when he tries to get a little action and she says she’s not in the mood.

Tonight is one of those nights. It’s not that she’s _remembering_. She’s just not feeling up to it, right? Not a problem. Before, when Vernon was feeling randy and she wasn’t, he would usually insist and insist and get increasingly upset until she sighed and did it, because it was her duty as a wife, or maybe because it was easier than arguing. But not tonight. Tonight they went to bed at the same time, and he started pulling up her nightgown; she stilled his hand and muttered a quiet “sorry, I’m tired” and he just… Accepted it.

Crazy.

It’s a coincidence, all a _coincidence_ , that she wakes up in the middle of the night. That there was oily black hair and the smell of grass in her dream. Nightmares are very few and far between nowadays, but when they come, she still likes to pretend they didn’t.

Vernon isn’t next to her when she startles awake, which she doesn’t think much of. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or drinking water downstairs, or he went out for a smoke. She doesn’t particularly care. What she knows is that staying in bed isn’t an option, so she stands up, puts on her robe – Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold tonight – and heads down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and possibly a sleeping pill.

Water in the pot, pot on the stove. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._ There are noises coming from Harry’s cupboard; he tosses and turns in his sleep about as much as Lily did. Whenever Lily would take refuge in her bed after a scary dream, back when they were children, Petunia would wake up slightly bruised and more than slightly angry. _Don’t think about that, either._ Two bags of camomile tea, one spoon of honey, hot water in the cup. Is something going on with the boy? There’s a _lot_ of noise. She should check. A good aunt would check.

She’s bringing the tea to bed, for sure. It’s too cold to stay downstairs. While it steeps, resting on the sink, she tiptoes to the cupboard and presses her ear to the door.

Oh no.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until I got at least one comment to post the next chapter, but dang it, I want to put these words out into the world.

_1980_

_If there’s one thing Mum was good at, it was guilt-tripping people. In a few short, chaotic years, she had managed to convince Petunia to both invite Lily and James to her wedding and politely attend theirs; they had even taken pictures together, as if they were a big, happy family. They weren’t. Petunia and Lily barely spoke anymore. James was, at best, obnoxious and arrogant. He and Vernon couldn’t spend any significant amount of time near each other without a fight breaking out. A disaster, really._

_Nevertheless, Mum was on her last few months and everybody knew it, including the woman herself. Scarf around her bald head, fitted shirts that didn’t hide how her chest was now entirely flat; she was still bright and brave and energetic, recounting her life as a nurse and mother of two beautiful little girls to anyone who would hear it. Now, she could also add ‘grandmother’ to the list, both to a newborn Dudley and to the still unnamed child growing inside of Lily. If the list was of achievements, the newest addition would be reuniting both of her daughters for her forty-sixth – and probably last – birthday._

_The atmosphere was… Tense. On one side of the living room, Lily sat all pretty and proper, with a round belly stretching her dress to its maximum capacity. (She’d always been on the smaller side, but now, heavily pregnant at twenty, she looked somehow_ younger _.) Any affection Petunia could have felt for her now estranged sister was immediately cancelled by the man with wild hair and glasses, whose arm stayed around her skinny shoulders like he was daring anyone to come too close._

_On the other side, Petunia’s attention was divided between holding little Dudley and explaining to her mother that Vernon wasn’t avoiding anybody, just working. Yes, on a Saturday afternoon. Yes, everything was fine. Yes, she was happy, and no, she didn’t need help. Mum didn’t seem to quite believe her, but Dudley – bless his tiny little soul – interrupted their conversation with a piercing scream._

_“I think that means it’s time for lunch, eh?” Mum chuckled. “Need anything, love?”_

_“No, I’ve got his lunch right here.” She shrugged, gesturing to her own chest. Before she could ask James to at least turn away – there was nothing_ inappropriate _about breastfeeding, but that didn’t mean she wanted her brother-in-law to see her take out a tit – he stood up of his own accord, a friendly smile in Mum’s direction as he offered to help her get their lunch sorted. At least Lily had married a man with a little common sense, she supposed._

_With Mum and James in the kitchen, the two sisters were left alone in the living room, in uncomfortable silence. The only reason Petunia didn’t_ completely _hate it was that she had something to do; namely, unbutton the top of her shirt and offer Dudley the meal he’d been crying for._

_“Pass me that pillow, will you?” She asked Lily. At least the girl could still be helpful. “Put it under my elbow here.”_

_Instead of fucking off to the kitchen like she should have, Lily sat right next to Petunia. Even reached out a hand to stroke over the barely visible blonde hair on her baby’s head. Like this was normal, like they were still the sisters they had been when they sat together to feed their dollies spoonfuls of air._

_“Does it hurt?”_

_“Does what hurt?” The sass in her tone was completely intentional._

_“Feeding the baby.”_

_Petunia sighed. They were really about to have a conversation about motherhood._

_“If you wait too long, it gets really full and swollen. Then it hurts. Otherwise, no, not really.”_

_She could have asked Mum. She could have asked literally anyone else, including the (presumably magical) doctors she was doing prenatal care with. But no, here she was, asking Petunia. What did she want? Wasn’t it enough to be civil to each other for their mother’s sake?_

_Apparently not, because Lily was still caressing Dudley’s hair, her other hand on her pregnant belly, and didn’t seem to have any intention to cut the conversation short._

_“What about giving birth?”_

_“I had a C-section. Didn’t feel a thing.” And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “I’m sure your people have a way of snapping their fingers and making the baby pop out like a bunny from a hat.”_

_Lily’s sigh seemed to come from somewhere in the bottom of her soul._

_“You know, there’s a chance he could be one of_ my people _.”_

_That was it. That did it. The only reason Petunia wasn’t getting up and leaving right then and there was that there was still a child hanging from her chest. How dare she? Dudley was going to be_ normal _. Happy. A good kid with none of that magic mumbo-jumbo. Lily and her freak baby could go and live their freak lives far away from her._

_“Go help Mum.”_

_“What’s the matter with you?”_

_“Go, Lily.”_

_She didn’t. She fucking_ didn’t. _Instead, she kept her hand on Dudley’s head, this time with an extremely determined look on her face, and instead of being a mature adult and looking Petunia straight in the eye, spoke to the boy, as if he understood._

_“I think this will be the last time we see each other in a long while, sweetheart.” There was clear emotion in her voice. Petunia hated it. Lily wasn’t allowed to get upset like this, not when she’d shown so much restraint. All she’d said was for her to go help their mother. The ‘before I break your fucking face in two’ was only implied. “But that’s not your fault. You’re little and squishy and you have the softest hair I’ve ever seen.” She smiled a sad smile that Petunia also happened to hate. “Even if your mummy hates me, though, you can come to Auntie Lily if you need something, yeah? Auntie Lily loves you.”_

_Without making eye contact with Petunia, she stood up then, heading towards the kitchen. Petunia decided to pretend the weight in her chest was milk instead of emotion._

* * *

1985

She’s frozen in place. There’s no mistake to be made, no doubt about where – _who_ – the sounds are coming from. She’s heard them before, on top of her, and she’s heard Harry crying, too; the fact that she’s hearing the two _together_ leaves nothing to the imagination.

She should do something, but it’s too late. He’s done. She _hears_ him being done. He’ll be exiting the cupboard and seeing her there – standing by the door, horrified – any moment now.

On an impulse, she runs up the stairs as fast as her shaky legs and sock-covered feet can take her and slips back under the covers, as if she’s been there all along, praying he won’t take notice of the cup of tea still resting on the sink. If he does, he must think nothing of it, because barely two minutes later there are footsteps in the room and a dip in the bed next to her.

Vernon did this. To Harry. Small, skinny, five-year-old Harry. Vernon, the man she swore to spend the rest of her life with. Harry, Lily’s son, who is currently crying alone in his tiny little cupboard. (She, too, is responsible for locking him there, for his weight, for the ratty hand-me-downs that hang so loose around his little frame. She fucked up too, massively; it’ll take years to realize just _how_ massively. But although the line is nowhere near where it should be, there still is a fucking _line_.)

What Petunia wants is to have a breakdown and run the fuck away. Instead, she lies perfectly still until she hears him begin to snore, then very, _very_ carefully tiptoes her way down the stairs.

Nothing to do but face it.

When she opens the cupboard door, the poor boy – still only half dressed – nearly jumps out of his skin, big green eyes staring back at her with confusion. (Lily’s eyes. She failed. She failed her sister in more ways than she can fucking count. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._ )

“It’s just me.” She offers weakly, knowing it’s not much comfort. While she’s never physically hurt the kid, she’s never really been anything resembling kind to him, either. “Your uncle’s asleep. ‘S alright.”

Harry looks from the sheets to his pants, halfway down his skinny little legs, and then up to Petunia, silent and frightened.

“I know. You don’t have to explain.” Should she apologize? To the five-year-old? She’s not ready for something like that. Instead, she pulls the boy’s pillowcase off of his pillow and begins to act on the precariously constructed plan she’s been putting together for all of ten minutes.

Of course Harry is silent, eerily so. He’s like a little statue while she bunches up the bedsheet – because there’s blood on it, oh God, this is bad. This is bad – and shoves it into the pillowcase, then points to his pants and tries to make her voice as gentle as she can.

“Is – is there blood on those too?”

He looks down, then up at her, and nods, shaking. If she were better, she’d offer some sort of comfort. As it is, she nods back and opens up the pillowcase in his direction.

“Put them here, then.”

Bloodstained items in the pillowcase, pillowcase stuffed at the very bottom of the bin where Harry keeps his school supplies. For later. For evidence. She can be brave this time.

* * *

_1975_

_It didn’t only happen once._

_Between July and August, Petunia lost four pairs of knickers, either ripped to shreds by magic or tossed deep in the garbage because she didn’t want to look at them ever again. Didn’t want to_ remember _ever again. But it was never that simple, and it felt like all she did was remember._

_The first time, she snuck back into the house barefoot, legs too weak to be trusted with the high heels she now held in her hand. Later she would be furious. Later she would cry. At the moment, all she felt was shame and disgust and humiliation._

_If only she hadn’t gone out with the girls. If only she’d come back sooner. If only she’d insisted Lily close the fucking curtains. If only, if only, if only. The possibilities made her head hurt. Dragging her feet up to her bedroom, she hid the bloodstained skirt under her mattress – she would throw it away in the morning, when there was no chance anyone but herself would take the trash out – and then proceeded to stand in the shower and scrub her skin until she couldn’t feel the ghost of Snape’s touch on it anymore. Until there was only the memory of sticky, disgusting spunk in her hair._

_That night, Petunia didn’t get any sleep._

_She knew she had options, of course she knew. When it happened to another girl at school, back when she was Lily’s age, the girl had gone to the police and the man responsible had been arrested. Petunia knew this, and the whole school knew, the whole_ town. _She couldn’t. She_ couldn’t. _The thought of it made the shame grow even hotter in her chest, something in the back of her mind screaming what a coward she was._

_She could tell Lily. Knowing what her ‘best friend’ had done would make her pull away from him, surely. Or she could tell her parents, who would certainly let Eileen and Tobias Snape know what their little boy was up to. She knew she could even confide in Dorothy and the girls if she really wanted to, and they would keep her secret._

_The real reason she never told a soul was that she was too afraid to say the words out loud._

_It happened again, and again, and one more time after that. She never told anyone about those, either. She did, however, make a few discoveries._

_Being clean helped. Showers were good, baths were better, both to help her relax and to ease the actual, physical pain of it. Throwing away the clothes she had worn, while cathartic, had the downside of making her have to come up with an excuse as to why she needed a new uniform to work at the ice cream shop; she couldn’t very well tell them it was because no amount of washing would make her striped dress stop smelling like him._

_Being alone made it worse. Being touched made it worse, too, more so immediately after. She spent most of her time_ near _the people she trusted, but her skin would crawl if they put their hands on her, even in a completely innocent way. (It wasn’t their fault, so she didn’t complain. Scratch that – they didn’t know, they_ couldn’t _know, so she powered through it.)_

_Lily, of course, noticed something was off. She was perceptive. Smart. Not perceptive or smart enough to know what her ‘_ Sev’ _was doing, but Petunia didn’t want her to, so that was good. Yes. Definitely a relief. Yet each time Lily asked, Petunia found herself wondering bitterly if she even cared, if she had any idea, if she_ would _care if she knew. (She would. Petunia’s mind was playing tricks. If she didn’t, that would be the end of it, the end of them.) Each time Lily asked, Petunia would lash out, exclaiming proudly that she couldn’t fucking_ wait _until the girl went back to her loony bin that she liked to call a school._

_On September 1 st, for the first time in years, Petunia got dressed and made sure to go with her parents to see Lily off. Her sister saw it as an act of affection, probably, or maybe remorse. In reality, it had very little to do with Lily and a lot to do with watching Snape board the train, making sure he was really leaving._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember this is *not* any sort of reference for how to handle a child who's been through something like this. I have no fucking clue what I, as myself, would do in this situation, nor do I know what is the right way to go about it. I know what I think this version of Petunia would do, and that's it, that's all.

1985

She can’t fix what happened to Harry. She can’t fix her husband’s actions or the continued neglect they’ve both inflicted on the boy, for years now. But she can help him now, with something she’s unfortunately familiar with; the memories that are all too eager to resurface are just going to have to stay there. She can be decent for once in her life, to the nephew who’s now holding his legs close to his chest, in Dudley’s old, far too large t-shirt.

“Come out, Harry.” Of course he doesn’t want to. He’s scared. Petunia was scared, too, when it was her, and she was an adult already. “I’m not angry. I want to help you.”

He doesn’t say a word, but doesn’t seem to believe her, either. With a sigh, she gets to her knees by the cupboard door so they’re at eye level; it seems to relieve at least a little bit of tension.

“You need a bath, at least. And clean sheets.”

“I’m sorry.” The boy squeaks out, to which Petunia promptly shakes her head.

“None of this is your fault. Now come on out and I’ll get the bath running.”

The promise of a bath seems to be enough incentive for Harry to leave the cupboard and stand up, the loose shirt nearly swallowing him. Has he always been so much smaller than Dudley? _Don’t think about it._ Petunia stands up too, and refrains from pulling the boy by the hand so they’ll move faster and more quietly. She remembers how it felt to be touched, afterwards. It must be worse for him. He’s a _child_.

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper as they get to the bathroom, but she stops him anyway with a whisper of her own.

“Wait until we’ve got the water running.”

He nods, and she goes about regulating the water temperature until it’s nice and warm – perhaps a little too warm, to make up for the chilly weather. The sound of it is enough to drown out anything they say if they’re quiet enough, and Harry is so quiet, she has trouble hearing him at all.

“What if Uncle Vernon wakes up?”

“Once he’s asleep, he’s out cold.” She thinks it over for a moment, then adds, “But I can always tell him you just wet the bed.”

“I didn’t, I swear.”

“I know, but here’s the thing. We’re not going to tell him I know what he did to you. Now give me your shirt and get in there, you’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

The boy doesn’t need to be told twice; one moment the shirt is in Petunia’s hand, the next he’s hopping into the warm water, submerging himself completely for a few seconds before coming back up with a little sigh of relief.

This would be her cue to leave, but she remembers how she dreaded being alone, back then. How she would come up with any excuse to stay close to Lily, her parents, her friends, for as long as she could, without actually letting them know something was wrong. On the other hand, having an adult stay with him while he takes a bath might have the opposite effect on Harry, considering the situation, so she decides to ask.

“Do you want me to stay or leave?” She’s never asked the boy what he wanted before. Probably ever. It shows in the look of disbelief in his face, so she adds an out, something he can use as an excuse if he’s too shy to say he needs company. “I can help you wash your hair if you can’t do it yourself.”

It seems to have been the right move, because Harry nods immediately. Nodding back, she makes sure the door is locked before taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub and reaching for the bottle of shampoo. (Dudley still needs her to wash his hair every day; Harry mostly takes care of it himself, but sometimes she’ll be combing it for school and find shampoo still clinging to the roots. Clearly, he’s still learning. She silently ignores the knowledge that she’s scolded him for it before, even though her own son can’t wash his own hair at all.)

They’re silent for the most part. Petunia doesn’t wash her nephew’s hair with the same care and affection she puts into Dudley’s, but doesn’t rush it, either; it’s a little more like when she and Lily were children. Even when Lily was a little older and could do it herself perfectly well, she still sometimes asked Petunia for help, just for the hell of it. Back then, she’d complain that her sister was just being lazy; nowadays she recognizes it as her just wanting a little more attention.

It’s almost peaceful, until she realises there’s a lot of questions she still needs to ask.

“Is this the first time it happens?” She dreads the answer, but can’t just _not_ ask. Under her hands, Harry’s shampoo-covered head shakes ‘no’. “When was the first?”

Instead of answering, Harry just shrugs, and she has to physically swallow down her annoyance.

“I need to know, kid.” And then, with a sigh, “You’re not in trouble.”

“I – really?”

“Really.”

It _doesn’t_ hurt in her chest to see how surprised the boy is. No, sir. Not at all.

“It was… It was when Dudley went to that slumber party at Piers’ house. While you were driving him there.”

Jesus Christ. “August? Or June?”

“I – I dunno.”

“Was it before or after Dudley’s birthday?”

“Just after. Like a week after.”

“June, then.”

“Yeah. June.”

“Alright.” She mutters, because Harry has started to shake again, and if letting him know she heard him provides that little bit of comfort, that’s the least she can do. It’s the furthest thing from alright, though. “Get me the cup and tip your head back.”

When the boy hands her the little plastic cup, she fills it up with water and starts to rinse out the shampoo, separating the hair with her fingers to make sure the water gets everything. It’s thick, nothing like Lily’s or Dudley’s. (Thick and black. _Don’t fucking think about it.)_

“Do you know…” Oh God. Oh God, she doesn’t want to know the answer to this, either. Perhaps even less so. Shit. “… Do you know if it’s happening to Dudley too?”

The boy shakes his head, but it’s too early to be relieved.

“No, it’s not happening, or no, you don’t know?”

“I – I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Okay.” It’s not okay. None of this is okay. She’s trying her absolute best not to completely shut down, because that’s exactly what her brain wants to do – shut down and pretend there’s nothing wrong at all. As far as defence mechanisms go, this is a shitty one. To keep it from taking over, she busies herself putting the cup down and handing Harry the bar of soap, then stands up, more to have something to do than anything else.

“Wash up.”

“Are you going back to sleep?”

She could, but she won’t. Not when Harry sounds like this.

“No, I’ll wait until you’re done.” And although he doesn’t quite smile, there’s no mistaking the slight sag in his bony little shoulders, or the way he keeps peeking over to make sure she’s still there.

It doesn’t take long, then. Just long enough for her to take a good, thorough look in the mirror and notice that despite being only twenty-eight, there’s a look of existential fatigue on her face that brings her closer to fifty. Mum was more youthful on her _deathbed._ She’s probably a horrible person for thinking that, but really, that’s just one more reason on the ever-growing list.

When Harry is done washing, she helps him out of the tub and wraps him in a towel; if it were Dudley, she’d probably pick him up – with a little difficulty – and playfully throw him over her shoulder to carry him to his bedroom, but this is Lily’s boy. They just walk side by side until they reach the cupboard downstairs.

“G’night, Aunt Petunia…” Harry whispers, and she gets a mental image of him trying to sleep in there after what happened less than an hour ago. Of how it isn’t even the first time he’ll have to do it. She thinks of him curled up with his blanket, still in pain, still feeling like his uncle (his own _uncle!_ ) is about to come back at any moment, and having only the too-close walls to turn to for comfort.

No.

“Harry, wait.” She lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder, over the towel; it makes him jump. She pulls back instantly. “Get dressed and come back out. You’re not sleeping in there tonight.”

“Where ‘m I sleeping?”

Where _is_ he sleeping? She can’t stick him in bed with her and Vernon, for every possible reason. Can’t put him with Dudley, either; nothing that would seem out of the ordinary to Vernon. If he knows that she knows, the little sketch of a plan in her head won’t even have a chance at working.

Then again, Harry probably won’t be getting a lot of sleep tonight, and neither will she. They can figure something out together.

“The living room, probably. Go get some clothes on, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he stands by the cupboard door, rocking back and forth on his little bare feet.

“Harry?”

“Can you…” He doesn’t continue the sentence, so Petunia does what she did before: gets down to his level. It worked when she was trying to get him out of the cupboard; hopefully it’ll work this time as well.

(She doesn’t even do this with Dudley, most of the time. For all that she’s confident about how to take care of a baby, talking to older children – with a mind of their own – is still a bit puzzling. She wonders if Lily would be better at it, and even before the question is fully formed in her head, knows the answer is yes.)

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Nevermind. Sorry.” He begins to open the door, but Petunia stops him.

“The worst I’ll do is say no, alright? I won’t be angry that you asked.”

Harry takes a deep breath, then, apparently gathering up all the courage he’s got.

“I – can you – can you stand outside the door? While I get dressed?”

For a request this simple, her answer can’t be anything but “sure”. Harry puts his clothes on at a frantic pace, keeping a little bit of the door open the whole time; if she were to look in, she can bet she would see him trying to check that she’s still there. She doesn’t look, though. Mostly, she’s preoccupied with listening to Vernon’s snores upstairs.

They’re still in the clear. Good.

Once Harry comes out, she guides him to the kitchen, where her tea is now cold and all the honey has sunk to the bottom of the cup. For the first time today, this is actually a problem she can fix – namely by making herself a brand new cup and letting it steep (again) while she rummages through the medicine cabinet. The bottle of sleeping pills is tempting, but she leaves it untouched and pops a Tylenol for her headache instead. (Dry, because her tea is still too hot to drink and she can’t be arsed to go get a separate glass of water. It’s not like her throat isn’t already tight and uncomfortable anyway.) She then looks for the children’s Tylenol and remembers squirting the last of it into a crying Dudley’s mouth a few weeks ago, when he had a nasty ear infection.

“I don’t suppose you’re old enough to swallow a pill, are you?”

Standing awkwardly by the table, Harry shrugs, and she can’t blame him. How is he supposed to know? She’s the adult. (How?) She decides they’ve had an eventful enough night without the possibility of Harry choking on a pill, so she makes a mental note of going to the pharmacy later and leads the boy to the living room, stopping by the linen closet to pick up a cosy blanket for him.

If Vernon comes downstairs and sees Harry sleeping in the living room, he’ll throw a massive fit. The thought of it makes Petunia’s stomach sink, but the thought of shoving Harry back into the cupboard is worse; resolutely, she sets up the sofa for him with a pillow and the blanket, and even tucks him in. (He looks so confused and so reluctant, her heart aches with guilt. Where was she this whole time? How did she allow any of this to happen, _participate_ in locking him in there for _years_? He’s _little_. Curled up under the blanket like this, with only the top half of his face peeking out, he looks even smaller, and a part of her wants to give the poor kid a hug for maybe the first time in her life.)

With Harry safely tucked in for the night, she finishes her tea and goes through the laundry hamper, piece by piece. Nothing seems out of the ordinary – none of Dudley’s clothes have blood stains, nothing’s missing, no suspicious bedding. For the first time tonight, she breathes a little sigh of relief. None of this means that nothing _happened_ , but she doesn’t know what she’d be capable of if she found blood on her baby’s clothes and _this_ was the reason.

And now… What? She can’t go to the police _now_ and leave the boys alone with Vernon. Can’t grab them and take them, either; if the process takes a while, she can’t have Vernon thinking anything feels suspicious. People who think you’re onto them hide their traces better. (People who think you’re onto them might try to shut you up.) She contemplates looking around Dudley’s bedroom for anything suspicious, but that would wake him up, and it can wait until tomorrow. The thought of going back to bed, however, makes her want to be sick.

She checks on Harry one last time – fast asleep on the couch, curled up tight; she has to verbally tell herself that his wet hair ruining the pillow is the least of their worries right now – and then on Vernon, just to see for herself that he’s actually sleeping and not about to hurt anyone else tonight. He is. Lying on his back, mouth open, snoring like a fucking lawnmower.

(How was she ever attracted to this man?)

Petunia decides to go to Dudley’s bedroom anyway. Just as she’d thought, her little boy is sleeping soundly under his Peter Rabbit blanket, blissfully unaware of everything that’s already happened tonight. Unlike her nephew, who jumps when he’s touched, Dudley only stirs a little when she reaches over to play with a particularly adorable curl of blonde hair.

Surprisingly, though, he opens his eyes after a moment, somewhere between asleep and awake.

“Mum? Is it time for school?”

“No, no, it’s still the middle of the night.” She presses a kiss to his little forehead. “Can Mummy stay with you?”

“Why?”

“Daddy’s snoring really, really loud.” She’ll ask him questions later. Tomorrow. Tonight he can sleep in peace. Without waiting for a response, she finds a way to fit on the child-sized bed and cuddles her little boy close; it’s physically uncomfortable, but at least she’s sure no one will get to him. They’d have go get through her, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are enjoying this so far. It's been getting tougher to write, I'll tell you that much. But it's therapeutic, too. I'll stop rambling before I just go completely off in the author's note.  
> Please leave a comment so I know I'm not alone here? It would mean a lot. This has been by far the most difficult story I've ever written, and I still can't tell if it's a good idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had everything already written up until about halfway through this chapter, so now the publishing has caught up to the writing. I hope y'all understand it'll be a bit slower now. Thank you for the nice words and for reading this far!

_1975_

_Petunia liked to pretend that her life went back to normal as soon as Lily left._

_For the most part, it did. She still went to her internship in the morning, still served ice cream and milkshakes every afternoon, still tried to spend time with her friends and generally make the best of being eighteen. If she just ignored everything that was wrong, her life was alright._

_Some days were even better than alright, like the time a very interesting group of men in suits came into the ice cream shop, being loud and boisterous but not quite enough to be unpleasant. A tall one, a chubby one, and one with glasses. It wasn’t like Petunia was going to_ do _anything about it, but it sure was nice to have pretty faces to look at while she worked; even nicer to giggle about them with Dorothy in the back._

_“How long’s it been since you went on a date, love?” Dorothy had a grin on her cherry-red lips that convinced Petunia she had a plan already. Sometimes her friends were straight up_ evil. _“Anyone since Nigel?”_

_“None of your business.” But she was smiling, too._

_“Now, now. Spill.”_

_“Don’t you have to refill the sprinkles?”_

_“A girl can do two things at once.” Dorothy made a point of pouring the contents of a large bag of sprinkles into the nearly empty jar while looking straight into Petunia’s eyes. “Now, I think those boys will start to get upset if you don’t bring them the menus, don’t you agree?”_

_“You are_ terrible. _How do I look?”_

_“Like you eat men’s hearts for breakfast. Now go.”_

_She went, and the chubby one caught her eye immediately; the loudest and most confident of the trio. With a big smile and little eyes that made him look a little like a cartoon character, in an oddly endearing way, he ordered for the three of them in a clearly flirtatious tone._

_Little eyes that looked her up and down in_ such _a suggestive manner, it had her hand shaking while she took their orders as quickly as she could before making a beeline for the kitchen._

_Clearly, she wasn’t ready for this._

_Dorothy, bless her, came to Petunia’s aid immediately, and somehow that was_ worse. _She knew there was nothing she could say that would justify how ridiculously unsteady she was on her feet from just a harmless interaction._

_“I’m fine, I’m fine. My stomach’s just acting up.”_

_“Are you – “_

_“Jesus, no.” The idea of being_ pregnant _was more than her mind could handle, so she added an incredulous laugh at the end, just for good measure. “Think I just ate something funny. Cover for me, will you?”_

_It worked. She spent ten minutes locked in the employees’ bathroom, looking in the mirror and hating herself for being a coward; here was a perfectly nice gentleman expressing interest in her, and she had literally run away and left Dorothy in charge of his table. By the time she got back – makeup fixed, lips painted with a bright new coat of red – her back was straight and her resolve was rock-solid. She was not going to let Snape ruin any part of her life. He was gone and so were the memories, as far as she was concerned._

_The three young men came back the next day. And the day after. By the end of the week, both Petunia and Dorothy were on a first-name basis with them, and Petunia was_ smitten _by the chubby one with the expensive suits and the loud, commanding voice. His name was Vernon, he worked an entirely normal office job, had an entirely normal sister with no freaky powers or freaky-powered friends, and wanted to take Petunia out on Saturday night, for an entirely normal date._

_Or a date that_ would _have been entirely normal if Petunia wasn’t turning into a bit of a freak herself. At least she pretended convincingly enough, she figured. To Vernon, it looked like she was just shy, a proper young lady raised with proper morals. He didn’t need to know that while she had no objection to his arm around her shoulders while they watched a movie, her skin started to crawl as soon as his hand went anywhere near her breast. And it did. Often. He was pretty determined to cop a feel. When he did, she acted perfectly coy, laughing it off and squirming away as if she were just embarrassed, not even a little bit horrified._

_That night, she didn’t sleep, either, half excited about Vernon’s promise of a second date soon, half pissed at herself for overthinking it so much. She should have enjoyed it a lot more. She_ would _enjoy it more the next time._

_(The following nights, she made sure her bedroom door was locked and the curtains were shut tight, and reached under the covers with a resolve that bordered on desperation, determined to make it feel something other than miserable again. She decided to count it as a victory that she managed to come, and completely disregard the tear-stained pillow beneath her head and the sob caught in her throat.)_

_(She threw out that pillowcase, too.)_

_He took her out again the next weekend, to an Italian restaurant where the food was good and the wine was even better. The cosy atmosphere made it easier to relax, to let the conversation flow and just enjoy his company; he had all sorts of stories to tell about his (normal) upbringing and how he used to be an athlete at school, and she was more than content to just listen and look pretty._ _He drove her home like a gentleman, but just as he parked outside the house, kissed her on the lips (good!), on the neck (less good) and felt her up again though her clothes (panic-inducing, but she was nothing if not a great liar)._

_According to Dorothy, the third date would be ‘the one’. Petunia did all she was supposed to do – legs immaculately shaved, everything else taken care of, brand-new lacy underwear, a nice black dress. She could do this. If she didn’t, he would surely find someone else who would; Vernon was an attractive man who could have whoever he wanted. Maybe not the_ most _attractive man in town, but certainly one of the most affluent and outgoing. Besides, this was the_ normal – _it was what everyone did, apparently, and she was normal too. She wasn’t going to let herself be anything but that._

_They went to his house, where he lived by himself, after a nice dinner somewhere good and expensive. They drank a little more. Petunia convinced herself that she could very well be the girl he expected her to be that night, that it would be worth it, that he would maybe fall in love with her. (She wasn’t in love with him, but she was_ trying. _) It’s why she went along with it when he kissed her again, far too nervous to actually enjoy it, and why she had no objection when he moved it further; she reciprocated however she could and mentally thanked her lucky stars that Vernon seemed to like his women shy and passive and virginal._

_Petunia tried, really, really tried, to stay in the moment and focus on how Vernon was different from Snape. How his skin was more pink than ghostly pale, his whole body softer and heavier, holding her down (trapping her._ Trapping her _) against his bed with ease. Not because he was that much stronger, but because she didn’t even try to resist. Wouldn’t be very ladylike of her to put up a fight, would it? So she let him undress her, touch her, teach her how to touch him the way he liked it; pretended to enjoy it, like she was supposed to._

_By the time he nudged her legs open, she was entirely numb._

_It wasn’t as if she_ didn’t _enjoy it. Parts of it, she reckoned, would have been rather nice if she’d been able to actually_ feel _any of it. But her body shut down, and her brain was at half speed, and she could only vaguely understand what was happening. Like being underwater and trying to listen to the world outside. Like coming back to the surface cold and exhausted even though you didn’t even hold your breath for too long at all._

_Later, she would curl up next to him – warm and soft and fuzzy, like a teddy bear – and once again mentally reprimand herself for how stupid she had been. How weak. A normal girl would have had a great time, probably. (Vernon sure as fuck had a great time.)_

_It was eight months later that Vernon got down on one knee and proposed to her, in her living room, in front of Mum and Dad. By that time, she had already done a good enough job convincing herself that this – the butterflies_ and _the numbness, all rolled into one – was how love was supposed to feel, at the same time comfortable and suffocating. She accepted with a grin and kissed him right then and there, and then Mum whisked her off to sit at the kitchen table and excitedly discuss wedding plans._

_When summer rolled around, she was spending more time at his house than her own; she didn’t know if she was in love with_ him _or enamoured by his professional success and assertive tone, but she counted herself a lucky bride nonetheless. University didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore, so she quit the internship and applied for a typist job at the same company where Vernon worked, to which he firmly objected. He earned enough money for the both of them, he was supposed to be the sole provider for their household. Petunia considered objecting – Mum had always loved her job as a nurse and always encouraged both her daughters to be hardworking, self-sufficient, ambitious – but it was comfortable like that, wasn’t it? Vernon would work, she would take care of the house, like a good, old-fashioned couple. Back then, it felt like he was being protective. Like he took pride in supporting his future wife and later their own little family. It felt_ safe. _She said yes._

_And then Lily came back from school. Hugged her, congratulated her on the engagement with genuine excitement. For the first time in a few years, the two sisters sat on Petunia’s bed that afternoon and actually updated each other on all that was going on in their lives; Petunia gushed about Vernon, Lily went on and on about a boy named James. A boy who was allegedly kind and smart and wanted to be in magical law enforcement._

_That same afternoon, unprompted, Lily confessed she had cut ties with Snape completely. Petunia wanted to ask why. Wanted to know if he had hurt Lily, too – everything had begun with him spying on her, after all. But asking such a question would make room for Lily to ask uncomfortable questions right back to her, so she didn’t; she asked if her sister was okay, instead. When Lily said no,_ then _she probed further, and watched her sister’s green eyes well up with tears as she admitted to the awful things Snape seemed to believe about people who weren’t magical. People like their family. How she’d given him chance after chance, defended him when he was being bullied, and still he’d turned to her and called her that word that made Lily burst into tears repeating it to her older sister._

_Petunia refrained from the ‘I told you so’ and the ‘you should have listened’, and from calling Lily the naïve little girl they both knew she had been. She would tell her all of that later on (multiple times, probably). In fact, she refrained from saying anything at all and just held her little sister close until she stopped crying._

_“He’s not coming back”, Lily said, voice muffled against Petunia’s shoulder. “He’s spending the summer with his friends. It’s all over, Tuney. All fucking – how long was it? Thirteen years? Thirteen years of friendship. Gone.”_

_It was terribly hard to feel bad for Lily when her own chest was absolutely_ melting _with relief._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely not proofread because I *cannot* look at this chapter any longer. Humanizing Vernon is exhausting.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the patience! Also, those of you who have been keeping up with the story might want to go back to the beginning for just a second. I've been adding illustrations to the ends of the chapters and it's been a lot of fun.

1985

Petunia only realises she dozed off when Dudley’s duck-shaped alarm clock startles her back to reality, only to be immediately crushed by the weight of last night’s discoveries. It’s dizzying and makes her want to go back to sleep, preferably forever, but it’s time to get the day started as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

She wakes Dudley up by shaking his shoulder lightly – bless her boy, he sleeps like a log – and presses a kiss to his face as she tells him to get dressed for school. He complains a little, but gets up soon enough, so Petunia goes downstairs to check on Harry.

Usually, she would wake him up by knocking on the cupboard door; now that he’s in the living room, she tries a more gentle approach. Contrary to Dudley, he jolts awake as soon as she touches his arm, big green eyes darting around the room with confusion for a few seconds before locking on her face.

“Get up, ‘s time for school.” She says, to which Harry immediately nods, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he gets to his feet. Petunia begins to fold the blanket as she looks him over in Dudley’s too-big, too-old pyjamas and sighs quietly – how did it never bother her before? He needs some proper clothing. Hell, the kid looks just short of homeless in these. “You feel a little better?”

Harry nods again.

“Good. Now go put on your uniform and let’s get breakfast started.”

At least the boy is efficient. In the time it takes Petunia to start unloading the dishwasher and heating up the skillet for eggs, he gets dressed and comes straight back to the kitchen. She doesn’t compliment him on it, but appreciates it, which really should count for something.

They work in silence together for a few minutes – Harry setting up the table, Petunia whisking together milk and eggs and pouring it all into the skillet, keeping an eye on the doorway and absolutely _dreading_ the moment Vernon will come into the kitchen. Looking at him after knowing what he did – what he’s _been doing –_ feels like an impossible task now, and yet she’ll have to go through their morning routine pretending like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

Speaking of which.

“Harry.” She calls in the same quiet voice she used last night, almost overpowered by the sound of the eggs sizzling. “Come here, I need to tell you something important.”

The boy places the last cup on the table and approaches her obediently; she gets down to his level so they can keep it to a near-whisper.

“What’s the matter? ‘S something wrong?” Well, yes, everything.

“You can’t tell anybody at school about what happened last night. You hear me? Not your teachers, not your friends, anyone.”

“I don’t _have_ friends.”

Well, ouch.

“You don’t?”

Harry shrugs like he’s talking about the weather. “Dudley doesn’t like it when the other kids talk to me.”

Clearly, there’s more to work on than she thought. One step at a time, though. There are bigger fish to fry even on a normal day, and today’s fish is rather monumental.

“Well, regardless. You can’t tell anyone. Understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” He swallows audibly, then, and it looks like he’s about to say something else when Dudley’s voice, still sleepy, effectively ends that conversation for the time being. She’ll talk to Dudley, too, but not yet. Right now her boy is rubbing his eyes with a chubby little hand and loudly announcing how hungry he is, so she gets straight to her feet and finishes scrambling the eggs.

And then Vernon comes down. Large and commanding and all dressed for work, with the same cologne he always wears. She used to think it smelled rather nice; today it makes her want to be sick.

_Don’t think about it._

She can pretend again. She can be the good, obedient, efficient housewife she’s always been, like nothing’s wrong, like she’s not sharing the table with a criminal. Like she didn’t start going numb as soon as he came close and kissed her good morning.

They make small talk. About the dreadful weather, about how the eggs are a little burnt (Vernon blames Harry for it, thinking he helped her make them, and Petunia, who’s never really cared for the boy, has to fight an irrational urge to jump to his defence). Vernon tells an anecdote and she acts amused; Dudley starts to tell them how excited he is for some new game he’s going to play with his friends at recess, and she pretends to listen to that, too. In her head, she’s going over the plan and every possible way it can go wrong.

_Don’t think about it._

It’s a relief when everyone is finished eating and she can stick everything in the dishwasher, commanding the boys to go brush their teeth and get their coats on. Even more of a relief when she combs Dudley’s hair into an adorable little cowlick – something he can still get away with looking cute and _not_ obnoxious in – and tames Harry’s curly rat nest the best way she can, then stands outside with the two until the bus comes to take them to school.

Mind you, it doesn’t make Vernon’s company any more pleasant, but at least the kids are safe. At least she can allow herself to fully dissociate while she goes through the motions of doing whatever needs to get done that morning, until finally, _finally_ he leaves, with a disgustingly wet kiss to her mouth and a joke she pretends to find hilarious.

When his car disappears around the street corner, she can finally lock the door and go to Dudley’s room to look for evidence.

Nothing in his clothes.

Nothing in his drawers or his desk, just a slightly disturbing amount of lolly wrappers.

Nothing under the bed except for an old Mickey plushie.

Nothing strange or suspicious in the drawings he’s taped to the wall – they’re just as ugly as any five-year-old’s artwork, with vaguely human-shaped figures representing different people. There’s one of Dudley with his friends, one of the characters from whatever cartoon is his latest obsession, and one of his family. Dudley in the centre, small and chubby and smiling. Herself on the right, taller, with comically large curlers in her hair. Vernon on the left – bigger than her by quite a bit, in a suit, cigar in hand. All of them smiling. Except for the figure in the far right, smaller than Dudley, with a whole bunch of hair on his head and a frown on his face.

Huh. One more on the list of things that need to be addressed at some point.

The point is, there’s no evidence that anything is happening to her little boy. Maybe it’s just Harry – which is bad enough, of course it’s bad enough, but at least Dudley isn’t getting hurt. At least there’s only one child in the house being horribly traumatised, instead of two.

In the back of her mind, something’s still telling her there’s a part of the story she hasn’t discovered yet, but she ignores it in favour of going down to the living room, taking the deepest breath she can, and with her heart stuck in her throat, call the police.

_“Surrey Police Department, what’s your emergency?”_

Oh God. Oh God. She can’t do this. She can’t come out and _say_ it. It’s so much worse than when it was her – this is a _five-year-old boy_ getting _assaulted_ in her home. Under her care. By her husband.

_“What’s your emergency?”_

She failed him and she failed Lily and she failed bloody everyone. She can’t breathe.

_“Is anyone there?”_

She hangs up the phone, runs to the bathroom, and spends the next several minutes dry-heaving on the floor. How is she supposed to say it out loud? To get in contact with another human being and admit to them that the worst possible thing that can happen to a child is happening in her formerly trouble-free home?

Not right now. No. Petunia will gather up the courage to do it later today, but right now she’s going to take care of the house and stall until there are no more tasks to get done.

First order of business is putting new sheets on Harry’s bed. Then cleaning her bedroom, making the big bed she’s been sharing with Vernon since she was twenty. Then tidying up Dudley’s bedroom, getting all the toys where they belong, fishing the forgotten Mickey out from under the bed.

And having to run to the bathroom again, this time to actually vomit, when she finds Mickey’s left ear covered in dry semen.

She doesn’t even brush her teeth before making the call.

_“Surrey Police Department, what’s your emergency?”_

“My husband raped my son and my nephew.”

* * *

_1969_

_Petunia took great pride in her ability to never, ever rock the boat._

_Being twelve was… A lot to handle. Her body was doing all sorts of weird things she had no control over, paying attention in class was increasingly difficult with all these new distractions, and she was angry all the damn time, for no reason. But did she start trouble? No. She complained a lot, sure. Got into arguments sometimes. Nothing more eventful than that._

_Her sister, on the other hand, was absolutely inconsiderate. Nine-year-old Lily thought she was going to save the world by coming to the defence of anyone who seemed to be in trouble, regardless of the cost. Detention? No problem. A scolding from Mum or Dad or a teacher? Didn’t bother her. A trip to the principal’s office that ended with her being sent home early, meaning Petunia_ also _had to leave early because both their parents were working and there was no one to walk Lily home? Absolutely. It didn’t matter that Petunia was going to miss English class, her favourite, or that the issue that led to her leaving early in the first place was absolutely moronic. Whatever Lily wanted, Lily got._

_She couldn’t exactly say no, so of course she threw her backpack over her shoulder and waited for her bloody annoying little sister to get checked out by the school nurse before walking home with her. Didn’t mean she was going to be nice about it._

_“What sort of trouble did you get into this time?” It was starting to rain, just a light drizzle over their heads, adding one more reason for Petunia’s bad mood._

_“It wasn’t my fault!”_

_“Lily, come on! You always do this!”_

_Lily pulled her backpack closer to her body and let out a very dramatic sigh._

_“Look, we were sitting in art class, and Mrs Covey said to draw a self-portrait. Right? So we had mirrors. And we were supposed to look in the mirror and draw ourselves.”_

_“Okay, and?”_

_The rain was getting a bit harsher now. Petunia wished she’d brought an umbrella or something to cover her head with, because her hair looked cute that day and it was about to be ruined._

_“And Alice was just minding her business. Doing her drawing. But she’s sort of chubby. And she was drawing herself skinny like everyone else was, ‘cause like, no one_ wants _to draw themselves fat, right?”_

_Yeah, they were definitely getting soaked if they kept walking home. Huffing impatiently, Petunia grabbed her sister by the arm and pulled her to the nearest place they could hide until the rain subsided – just outside of Mr Bach’s stationery store, under the big canopy._

_“But then! Then she had to go to the bathroom. And then the boys sitting behind us thought it was the funniest thing in the world to take her drawing and ‘fix’ it.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “You know how they fixed it? They made her into a pig! With a pig nose! I was too concentrated on my drawing, so when I noticed it, it was already done. I got so mad.”_

_Petunia swung her backpack to the front so she could open it and look for a comb; if she had to stand there and listen to her dumb nine-year-old sister ramble about dumb nine-year-old drama, she was at least going to do something useful in the meantime._

_“Don’t tell me you did something weird.”_

_“I couldn’t help it! I_ can’t _help it! It just -”_

_“Lily, what did you do?” Why couldn’t she have a normal sister?_

_“Well,_ I _didn’t do anything. But the cup they were washing their brushes in tipped over and spilled paint water all over the meaner one’s lap. It looked like he peed himself, the other boys started laughing at him, and then he got_ really _mad.”_

_“Cups don’t just tip over on their own. You pushed it.”_

_“I didn’t!”_

_“You’re lying.”_

_“I’m not! I didn’t touch it! Severus says that’s_ normal!’

_She was done with this. Done with Lily’s nonsense and done with the rain and done with the weird rattling noise that began to come from the window behind them._

_“I don’t care what your weird friend says. Either you pushed the cup with your hand or with your freaky powers.”_

_“Mrs Covey didn’t believe me, either. But I swear! You’re my sister, you_ should _believe me! And he deserved it, anyway. He’s mean.”_

_“Did he hit you? Is that how you got the black eye?”_

_More rattling. Petunia suspected it was Lily’s_ thing _acting up again, probably because she was angry, and stubbornly refused to look at the window. Maybe if she ignored it, it would stop._

 _“No, but he reached over with his paintbrush and tried to paint my face.” She pointed to the bruise around her left eye, and sure enough, there were bits of blue paint where the nurse hadn’t been able to wipe it all off. “Only he’s an idiot and he_ shoved _the brush in my face and it_ hurt. _So I painted him right back.”_

_“You could have poked his eye out! He could have poked yours!” The rattling behind them became even louder. “You should have minded your own damn business and let your friend defend herself for a change!”_

_“So it’s_ my _fault?”_

_“Yeah, it’s your bloody fault! You never leave well enough alone! You always have to stick up for the weird kid or the ugly kid or the fat kid like you’re some sort of fairy godmother and -”_

_And Petunia didn’t have time to finish her sentence, because the glass window on the side of Mr Bach’s stationery store shattered to a million pieces, giving them both a perfect view of Mr Bach inside, completely dumbfounded._

_She did the first thing she could think of. Grab Lily by the hand and run like their lives depended on it, under the pouring rain. Even though she was cold and breathless from the effort, there was still some air in her lungs to shout at her little freak of a sister the whole way home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you like the story so far!


	6. Chapter 6

1985

When the school bus drops off Dudley and Harry outside, the first thing Petunia does is wrap her boy up in a hug that’s so tight, he only hugs back for a second before he starts squirming to get away.

“Mum!” He complains, but she still holds on for a moment or two longer. He’s _small_. Even as chubby as he is, he’s still little and _five_ and holy shit, she could kill Vernon, she really could. “Mum, you’re squeezing me!”

Petunia lets go reluctantly and looks at Harry – who’s also five and even smaller, and has he always looked so wistful watching his cousin get affection? She can’t quite bring herself to hug the boy, but she does pat him on the shoulder a little bit, which seems like enough for now. Probably. She has no idea what she’s doing most days and now is no exception.

“I need to talk to both of you.” She announces, then immediately regrets it. It makes them both look like little deer in the headlights. “No one’s in trouble. Just – come here. You two. Sit.”

A little awkwardly, they both kick off their shoes and take a seat on the couch, Harry perched on the very edge of the seat like he’ll have to take off at any minute. After a moment of hesitation, Petunia takes a deep breath and sits across from them on the coffee table, which makes Dudley tilt his head in confusion.

“You said we’re not supposed to sit on the table.” He points an accusatory finger in her direction, to which she smiles. Five-year-olds and their priorities.

“Today’s an exception.”

“Why?”

“Because this is going to be a really hard conversation for all of us, and I want to be able to look you both in the eyes.”

There’s a moment of silence, and how the fuck is she supposed to start? The police officer on the phone said to try and talk to the boys before they went to the station, just so they knew what to expect when they got there; to make sure they knew they weren’t in trouble and that they were supposed to be honest. All good and solid advice. She still has no clue how to _begin_ , so she tries to reaffirm what she said before.

“I’m not upset with either of you. This isn’t a scolding, it’s a _conversation_. Alright? But I do need you two to tell me the truth, even if it’s a really bad truth. No one’s getting punished. Do you understand?”

They look at each other, then at Petunia again, and nod.

“Okay. Alright. I know your father – your uncle – is hurting you two.”

Just as she’d predicted, it’s the worst conversation she’s had in her damn life, but at least it’s _productive._ Even if it makes all three of them cry at different points; even if Harry is hugging his knees to his chest and Dudley repeatedly tries to change the subject by asking to go pee or get a snack or whatever else he can come up with. She says no every time, as much as it pains her – if they stop now, they won’t be able to get back into it. After a handful of questions she’d never wanted to ask, another handful of sickening responses, and a few pauses to assimilate the information on every side, she discovers most of what she needs to know.

It’s (unsurprisingly) a lot worse with Harry than with Dudley; while Vernon has done things _near_ and _on_ his son and used his fingers for horrifying purposes, at the very least he’s never – she can’t put it in words even in her own head. He’s done it to Harry, though. The distinction has had an effect Petunia couldn’t have seen coming: while Harry is fully aware that what’s been happening to him is scary and wrong and shouldn’t have happened even once, Dudley has to actually be convinced he’s being hurt in the first place, because the sick son of a bitch managed to twist it in such a way that the boy believes it’s just something dads do to their ‘favourite boys’. Gross. Fucking _gross._ She has to explain concepts they’re far too young to understand, like how only adults are supposed to touch each other that way, and how no one (“no, Duds, not even parents”) should ever touch a kid between their legs unless they’re just helping them clean up.

“What about other kids?”

“Other kids can’t touch you there, either.”

“Dad says you wouldn’t understand ‘cause you’re a girl.”

“He’s lying.”

“But why would he lie?”

“So you wouldn’t tell your mum!” Harry intervenes, and while usually Petunia would scold him for interrupting, this time she’s glad he’s caught on. “He lied to me too! He said your mum wasn’t gonna believe me if I told her and she was gonna say I’m a liar and hit me!”

Jesus.

“But that’s _different._ My dad doesn’t like you. Nobody likes you. He loves me.”

Harry deflates, then. Without thinking much about it, Petunia finds herself shaking her head at Dudley, correcting him as gently as she can.

“It’s not different, love. Your father wanted to hurt both of you. He just found different excuses to make sure you wouldn’t tell on him.”

“So he’s being mean on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.” Dudley’s big blue eyes start welling up, his bottom lip trembling, and it takes all of Petunia’s strength not to burst into tears as well. “You’re _lying_. My dad loves me.”

“When you really love someone, you don’t hurt them on purpose.”

She can almost see the gears turning in her little boy’s head, trying to make sense of this soul-crushing amount of new information he’s been given. His little hands open and close repeatedly into tight fists on his lap, and he looks from his mother to his cousin in a frantic way that makes her heart ache.

“M-maybe – maybe he doesn’t _know_ it’s wrong. Like maybe he doesn’t know that’s grownup stuff. Right? You should – you should tell him.”

“Baby…”

“It’s not like with Harry! It doesn’t hurt! How’s – how’s he hurting me if it doesn’t _hurt_?”

If she makes it through this conversation, she can truly make it through anything. She wants to die. She wants to kill Vernon, slowly and painfully, and _then_ die.

“I swear you’ll understand when you’re older how bad this is.”

“I want to understand _now!_ ”

“Okay. Okay. Give Mummy a second.”

She racks her brain for an explanation that Dudley would understand. He’s a smart boy, but he’s still a _child._ How can she make this make sense, when all of it depends on concepts he’s too young to grasp? The only thing she can think of doing is relate it to something he _does_ know. Bring it to his world, so to speak. Who knows, maybe that’ll do something. She’s flying blind.

“It’s like a prank.” He’s familiar with pranks. It’s a start. “Like – imagine with me. You meet a younger kid.”

“How old is he?”

“Let’s say… Two.”

“What’s his name?”

Petunia sighs. Next to Dudley, Harry seems to have lost interest in the conversation and is now peeking over the back of the couch, out the open window. She can’t wait for them to be old enough to have a proper attention span.

“I don’t know. Peter. Let’s say his name is Peter and he’s two years old. Now, imagine Peter has a really cool toy you want to play with.”

“But he’s a _baby._ Babies have lame toys.”

“Duds. Sweetheart. Imagine.”

Dudley folds his arms and huffs. “Okay.”

“You ask Peter if he wants to share his toy, but he doesn’t know what sharing means. So you decide to play a prank on him and tell him that sharing means giving your toys to the person who asks, ‘cause then they’ll be your friend. That way, you get Peter’s toy, because he wants to be friends with an older kid like you, and he trusts you because you’re older. You’re tricking him, and he has no idea.”

In her head, Petunia congratulates herself on the metaphor, because it seems like Dudley is finally starting to understand what she’s been desperately trying to tell him.

“That… That’d be really mean.” He points out. “I’m pretending to be Peter’s friend to get his cool toy, but I’m not _really_ his friend.”

“Exactly. Your dad is doing the same thing to you, love.”

“He’s pretending to be my dad?”

She would very much like to shove her head into the nearest wall.

“No, he’s pretending he’s doing these things to you because he loves you, when really he’s playing a prank on you ‘cause he knows you’re too young to get the joke.”

“Oh.”

“Aunt Petunia.” Harry interrupts, but she ignores him. Not now, not when Dudley is finally catching on.

“That – that’s really mean. He said we were playing a game.”

“ _Aunt Petunia._ ” Once again, she ignores Harry, because whatever he needs to say can wait a minute.

“He’s playing a game that’s only for grownups, ‘cause then he gets to play it his way and win.”

“Aunt Petunia!”

“ _What_?”

“His car!”

Son of a bitch, it really is his car parking outside. What the fuck is he doing home so early? He’s supposed to be at work for at least another few hours. She’s supposed to have time to take the boys to the police station – and now he’s going to be home and Dudley’s going to confront him, and everything, _everything_ is going to shit.

Not if she can help it, it isn’t. There are better strategies she could come up with, easier and more practical solutions, but she only has a minute or two to concoct a plan, and this is the only feasible one that comes to mind. So she looks into Harry’s absolutely _panicked_ green eyes and points in the direction of the cupboard.

“Get in there. You can come out once your uncle and I are upstairs.” The boy follows her order immediately; she then turns to Dudley, who looks cranky and betrayed and like he’s going to scream at his father as soon as the man walks through the door. “Duds, I need you to not say a word when your dad comes in. Can you do that? Can you be really, really quiet?”

“No, I’m mad.”

“Dudley, please.”

“No!”

There’s no use in arguing. Resigned, she turns on the telly and hopes it’ll be enough to keep from arousing Vernon’s suspicion; when he comes in, he’ll just see his son watching a cartoon and looking grumpier than usual.

Besides, he won’t be looking at Dudley for long. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The keys jiggle in the lock, Petunia smooths out her skirt, and then it’s showtime.

He greets her with a kiss. She kisses back.

Dudley opens his mouth to say something, but she’s already asking Vernon if they can talk upstairs, and giving him a wink – the same wink she used to give him when they were flirting in the ice cream shop – paired with her best, sweetest smile. When he raises an eyebrow, she leans in and whispers how she regrets saying no last night, how she spent all day thinking about him. Come to think of it, neither statement is a lie; if she hadn’t said no, Harry wouldn’t have had to go through this, and she _did_ fantasize about different ways to kill the man all morning and afternoon. Not that he needs to know that much. He grins, leads her upstairs, and she gives herself to him like a sacrifice.

His hands are fire on her skin. Every time he touches her, she pictures how her nephew must have felt, how disoriented and scared he must have been. The pain of it. When he tries to please her, she chokes on the thought that he must have touched his own _son_ the same way. His weight on top of her is a trap, a straitjacket, and she’s so wired, her brain doesn’t even bless her with a good bout of dissociation to help her cope. Throughout all of it, she smiles.

When he’s finally done, he tugs her close and she goes with it, obedient, leaning against his naked body – big and hot and hairy like a monster. He yawns, calls her a good girl, asks if she’ll be a dear and grab him a cup of coffee before she gets dinner started.

Petunia knows a chance when she sees one. Standing on legs that barely hold up her weight, she puts her clothes back on and heads to the kitchen, past the cupboard door, past the couch – “Did you yell at him, Mum? Is he sorry? Mum?” – and straight to the medicine cabinet.

The cup of coffee, laced with two of Doctor Rothman’s sleeping pills, is consumed in one minute. It puts Vernon to sleep within the next five. In ten, she’s got Harry’s pillowcase and Dudley’s incriminating plushie in a bag dangling from her arm.

After fifteen minutes, Petunia grabs Harry by one hand, Dudley by the other, and the three of them walk down the street to the taxi stop. All three shaking with fear and uncertainty as they ride in the backseat, deathly silent, to the police station. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was terribly hard to write, for a few reasons. Not the least of which being that I wanted to write a more detailed conversation between Petunia and the boys; I think it would've been a bit of a healing experience for me to go into how the two - especially Dudley - perceived the things Vernon did to them. However, I saw a TikTok where a woman said predators get off on how kids talk about their parts, and you know what. You know fucking what. If some sicko wants to get their rocks off reading a fictional child's description of how their father/uncle touched them, they are NOT going to get it from my fic.  
> Also, I swear the flashback from last chapter is connected to the story. It'll make sense in the next one. I just felt like this would be too long if I continued on with the next scene, and it felt like a very organic place to end the chapter. I'm sorry for the ungodly size of this author's note, I just seem to have a lot of thoughts.  
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic so far!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've managed to figure out what my other account is, you know how often I end up using sexual trauma as a plot device. In this fic, sexual trauma IS the plot. Is that progress? I can't tell. But hopefully I'll get it all out of my system and never feel the urge to use it as a plot device again. Also, if anyone's keeping tabs, I still haven't figured out what happened to me.

_1981_

_Petunia never wanted to see Lily again, ever. She was angry, she resented her sister, and she didn’t want her little boy growing up around her sort. That didn’t mean she’d suddenly stopped missing her, or that she’d stopped remembering._

_She remembered looking after Lily when Mum had a night shift, when Dad was out of town, when they were outside playing with their friends and Lily scraped her knee. Tying her hair up with bows before school or just to play dress-up – her sister was always a willing and enthusiastic model for her creations, which usually involved her own shirts worn as dresses and a whole lot of Mum’s makeup. Feeding their dollies together, teaching Lily how to hang upside-down from tree branches like a bat, falling asleep together in front of the telly and having Mum cover them both with a fluffy blanket. Bickering endlessly about every little thing. They were best friends as children, the kind of best friends only sisters could really be._

_And then they grew up. She remembered kicking Lily out of her room when she had friends over and wanted to gossip. Actively avoiding her company at school – both because she was three years younger, therefore three years less cool, and because she made weird things happen and always got in trouble and was always, always the favourite. The cuter kid. The nicer one. The smarter one. Petunia was just_ there. _She decided to take the worst definition of herself – unremarkable – and turn it into_ normal, _taking great pride in being the one thing her perfect little freak of a sister could never be._

_Then Petunia finished school. Then Snape happened. Then she got married. Then Lily graduated and got married as well. Dudley was born, then Harry, then barely a month later, they met for the last time at their beloved mother’s funeral._

_More than anything, she remembered dissolving into tears, Vernon’s arm around her waist, while holding an inconsolable Lily’s hand as they watched the casket sink into the ground. How tight her grip was, how she sought the comfort of Petunia’s shoulder to cry on instead of James, who stood dutifully by her side. She remembered Mum, all through their childhood, insisting they should stick together, protect each other above all else. How every interaction they had after Lily’s wedding felt more and more like a lie._

_The distance between them grew into a chasm._

_Petunia remembered doing what she did best and burying all of her complicated feelings under layers upon layers of denial. Making it home after the funeral and going through drawers and cupboards, banishing every family photo album to the basement. She didn’t want to look at them anymore. Didn’t want them to exist. She’d spent the rest of the day cuddled up with her son and her husband, her only family from now on – Mum was dead and Lily was_ Lily _and there was nothing forcing them to talk anymore._

_(Lily sent an owl on Dudley’s first birthday, carrying a perfectly normal, non-magical bunny plushie. It went straight to the basement as well.)_

_And then, the morning after Halloween, everything came crashing down. She woke up like she normally did – bright and early, with Dudley screaming from his crib – and got the day started, feeding her son, changing a diaper, making a pot of coffee. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until Vernon opened the door to get the paper outside._

_“Petunia, there’s a child on our doorstep.”_

_Seeing as her own child was sitting on the carpet, happily playing with his foam blocks, this was… Unexpected, to say the least. She dropped what she was doing and came to the door, where her husband stood looking absolutely puzzled – sure enough, right there on the welcome mat, there was a little baby wrapped in a blanket, with a scar on his forehead and big, curious green eyes that looked exactly like…_

_Oh, no. No, this was a coincidence. Lily and James were alive and well, in their magical home, doing magical things._

_She picked the baby up gently, cradled it to her chest, and then noticed the envelope tucked into one of the folds of the blanket. With loopy handwriting that looked nothing like Lily’s, it was addressed to Petunia herself – so this child had been dropped off on their doorstep on purpose. It wasn’t someone trying to get rid of a baby, it was someone giving it to_ them _specifically._

_The contents of the letter made her nearly drop the child._

_No, not ‘the child’. Her_ nephew. _Harry. Because Lily was dead._

_Lily was dead._

_This boy would know as little as possible of his mother. Of magic. Of anything that hurt to think about. She – and by extension, Vernon – had no choice but to raise him, but that didn’t mean they were going to let him contaminate Dudley with all of this magic nonsense, and it certainly didn’t mean the memory of Lily would stay any more alive than Lily herself._

* * *

1985

By the time she’s finished giving her statement, Petunia is exhausted.

The officers have been perfectly nice to her and the boys, which she appreciates. They’re patient as Harry and Dudley try to express themselves, surprisingly effective when asking for details as gently as they can, and even listen to Petunia’s stammering without interrupting her.

It gets a lot worse when they take each child into a separate room to talk to another officer, while the first one stays with Petunia. She shouldn’t be stammering in the first place, she’s a grown woman. But as much as she put on a confident, reliable exterior when talking to the boys alone, it’s that much harder when it’s another adult collecting information on how neglectful she’s been.

Which she has. So much. She should have noticed something was wrong, should have never trusted Vernon in the first place. Dudley’s been gaining weight nonstop and she thought he was just hungry. Harry wet the bed after three years of being potty trained and she didn’t think anything of it. Not to mention everything regarding Harry to begin with – the cupboard, the lack of affection, the old ratty clothes. They’re going to take him away from her. They might take Dudley, too. Then she’ll have no one. She’ll have failed completely as a mother, as an aunt, as a sister, as a human being.

Her statement ends with her sobbing into her open hands, while the man who’s been witnessing her entire meltdown slides over a box of tissues without a word. Awkwardly and not at all convincingly, he tells her they’re more focused on getting the boys away from immediate danger than away from _her._ She has no choice but to hold onto his words.

“I know this must be terribly hard for you, Mrs Dursley.” He says, all professionalism. “But you’ve got to be there for your son and your nephew now. The medical examination is usually a bit hard to watch, considering the circumstances, but they’ll need your support. Can you do that?”

“What do you need me to do?” She wipes the tears from her face and straightens up, trying to get her head back into the game.

“The examiner will be working with one of them at a time, and you’ll need to be there for both of their examinations. All you have to do is help them stay as still and calm as they can. It’s uncomfortable, but it’ll be faster and less distressing with your help.”

Petunia nods. It’s the least she can do.

As it turns out, the kids have been waiting for quite a bit – who knew she’d have so much to say? Not Petunia herself, that’s for sure. They’re both sitting outside a closed door, little legs swinging back and forth from their chairs, while a woman in scrubs and a tight bun listens cheerfully to Dudley’s explanation of why the Jetsons are cooler than the Flintstones. Ah, to be five years old and determined to find enjoyment absolutely anywhere.

“Mum!” Her son greets her with a smile, pointing at the woman’s ankle. “Look, this lady’s got Rosey socks!”

Indeed she does. Petunia gives her a polite nod, to which she stands up and introduces herself.

“Mrs Dursley, I’m Doctor Moore. I’ll be examining your boys today.” She reaches for a quick handshake. “I was just getting to know them a bit while you finished giving your statement. Helps to ease the tension.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Have you got any questions before we start?”

“No, not really.” Unlike her son, Petunia is far too overwhelmed by the entire situation to really think of anything pleasant; it’s already taking all of her effort to keep her brain from shutting down. She doesn’t want to make small talk with this woman, as nice of a person as she might be. What she does want to do is get the whole thing over with and make sure neither Dudley nor Harry have to be near Vernon ever again.

“Alright, then.” She turns to the boys. “Does anyone want to go first?”

“Harry! Harry goes first.” Dudley pushes his cousin off the seat, sending him tumbling to the floor, and Petunia doesn’t even think to reprimand him. Someone has to be the first; might as well be Harry – who’s getting up and brushing the dust off his knees without a word, his eyes big and fearful. Petunia can’t blame him.

The room is… Clinical. If Petunia were to compare it to anything, it’d be her gynaecologist’s office; there’s a chair with stirrups on each side, a few painful-looking metallic objects on a tray, and a telly, for some reason. Doctor Moore leads them both past all of that and to the much less intimidating back wall.

“Now, Harry, I need you to get undressed.” She says gently. “It’ll just be for a moment.”

“Why?”

She picks up a camera from atop her desk. “I need to take photos for your file. One from the front, one from the back, and if there’s any marks or bruises on you, I need to take photos of those too.”

Harry doesn’t make a move immediately; for a long moment, he stares at the camera, then looks at Petunia, then back at the camera. Finally, he does as he’s asked. For what it’s worth, the woman makes quick work of the pictures – not even five minutes later, she’s putting the camera down and Harry is eagerly pulling his shirt and jumper back on. When he goes to put his pants on as well, she stops him.

“Not yet. Soon, though, I promise. Now we need to examine you.”

The boy is quiet. Eerily so. The only sound Petunia can hear, besides the doctor’s gentle voice, is Harry’s sharp breathing as she guides him to the chair, and –

Rattling.

It’s not loud. If anything, the metal tray is just a bit wobbly, something that could easily be excused by the table under it being unstable. But Petunia knows better, and knows it’s only going to get worse. In another situation, maybe she’d be angry or at least annoyed with Harry, but now – now he’s a five-year-old child with his little feet up on the stirrups, about to go through an invasive physical exam after everything _else_ that’s been happening, and she can’t find it in herself to feel anything but sympathy.

“There’s two ways we can do this, Harry.” Moore is putting on gloves and a mask, apparently oblivious to the tray vibrating beside her. “I can explain everything that’s going to happen before it happens, make sure nothing catches you by surprise. Or I can just do everything as fast as I can, so you’re free to go in just a few minutes. What do you prefer?”

Harry looks over at Petunia as if she’ll have the right answer. Personally, she thinks she would pick the latter, if given the same two options, but this is about what will make it less uncomfortable for Harry, not for her.

“It’s your choice, kid.” She tells him honestly.

“I think – I think I want you to explain. ‘S that okay?”

“That’s fine.” The woman sits facing Harry and pulls out what looks like a long Q-tip from the tray. “See this? It’s a swab. I’m gonna put it in here for a second. It doesn’t hurt, but you’ve got to stay still, yeah? Mrs Dursley, you can get that stool over there and come sit next to him.”

When Petunia drags the stool next to Harry’s chair, she can’t help but notice the tray has begun to vibrate significantly more. She shares a look with the boy, who doesn’t seem to have noticed it, and knows it would be counterproductive to point it out – he’d be more anxious, which would lead to more shaking. Then they both turn their attention to the doctor, who is now spreading a generous amount of clear gel over some sort of… Tool? Something that looks like a speculum, but thinner and rounder, and the tip of it actually _lights up._ Petunia can’t help herself.

“What in Heaven’s name is _that?_ ” She asks, more than a bit horrified, to which Moore chuckles.

“I know it looks a bit scary. It’s a proctoscope. Now, Harry – ” The boy’s got both arms around himself, tight, and it seems like Doctor Moore is willingly disregarding the loud rattling of the tray as she turns on the television. “I promise this doesn’t hurt, either. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not painful. You see, the tip of it is a tiny little camera. It’s gonna check if you’re hurt in there, and everything it sees is gonna show up on the screen up here. Just like before, I need you to be really, really still.”

Whatever objects are left on the tray are _clattering_ now, impossible to ignore or even explain, and Harry looks over at Petunia with a mixture of fear and helplessness that absolutely breaks her heart. Before she can convince herself not to, she’s prying his little hand away from where his nails are digging into his jumper and giving it a good squeeze; her voice, when she speaks again, is softer than it ever has been when talking to Harry.

“You can hold on as tight as you need to. Don’t look at the doctor, don’t look at the screen, just close your eyes and listen to me. Okay?” Immediately, he grips her hand with more strength than she thought possible for a five-year-old. “There you go, I’ve got you. ‘S alright. Your mum always held my hand when she was scared.”

It’s the first time she’s mentioned Lily to the boy without him bringing her up first. Not only does it surprise both Harry and herself, it also seems to make the tray’s violent shaking slow down just a little bit.

“What…” He holds on even tighter. “What was she scared of?”

“Thunderstorms. She was a very brave girl, but thunderstorms made her all jumpy. Bugs, too. And bad dreams.”

“My mum had bad dreams?”

“Only sometimes.” God, it feels strange to share this with Harry. She’s been so determined to avoid talking about her sister, to reprimand him when he asks – this is completely new. Somehow, it doesn’t bother her half as much as she thought it would, especially since the boy seems to be hanging onto every word.

“What were they about?”

She shrugs. “Monsters. Scary things we saw on the telly or in a movie.”

“Then what happened?”

“She’d come to my bed. When she was little like you.” She doesn’t want to think about how Harry has never had this experience, how he’s never been able to count on her for comfort when he has a nightmare. It weighs on her conscience anyway. “She would grab my hand like this and hold it all through the night. But she always kicked and turned in her sleep, so every time she came to my bed, I woke up with bruises.”

“Is that why you don’t like her? ‘Cause she hurt you when she was sleeping?” Oh, _ouch._

“I don’t – it’s not that I don’t _like_ her. I love her, she was my baby sister.” The words feel true, but they _sound_ fake even to her own ears. “We just – it’s complicated.”

“Why’s it complicated?”

“Enough, Harry.”

The boy swallows around thin air and pulls her hand closer, like he’s scared she’ll pull away. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m not upset.” There’s already been a lot of emotions today and there’s only so much she can handle at once. She does, however, know that silence is going to bring Harry’s attention to the exam again, so she keeps on talking. “You have her eyes, you know.”

“I do?”

“Yeah. You look a lot like your father, but she had green eyes just like yours.”

“And yellow hair like yours?”

“No, her hair was red.”

“She must’ve been pretty.”

“She was.” Petunia sighs. “When all of this is over and we go home, I can show you a picture.”

(Where did that come from? She doesn’t want to show him a picture. Doesn’t want to go into the basement and brush the dust off of years-old photo albums. Yet Harry immediately nods and smiles and the metal tray is completely immobile, and maybe – _maybe_ – she doesn’t entirely regret making that kind of promise.)

As it turns out, Harry isn’t the only one whose entire focus is on their conversation. Not just the words themselves and the memory of Lily, more present now than it has been in years; they’ve made a nice little bubble for themselves, where their voices are quiet and nothing bad or scary is going on. It’s quite a shock when Doctor Moore’s cheerful voice breaks right through it.

“All done! Now you can get dressed.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. In a minute he’s on his feet and fully clothed, with a hand on the door, just waiting to be told to leave.

“Can I go?”

“Yes, love. Ask Dudley to come in, will you?” As soon as the boy leaves, Moore turns to Petunia with a smile. “I couldn’t hear what you were talking to him about, Mrs Dursley, but it worked. He relaxed, didn’t try to move, it all went a lot more smoothly than I was expecting. When your other son comes in, I want you to do exactly the same, yeah?”

“Oh, no, Harry’s my nephew. Dudley is my son.”

“Sorry. My mistake.”

And maybe there’s something really wrong with her, because as it turns out, she doesn’t really mind the confusion all that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Brijesh for explaining some of the technical stuff to me. If you're reading, you're the real MVP, my dude. Also huge thanks to the grand total of *two* lovely readers who have left comments so far, I greatly appreciate you and I hope you're still reading. Finally, thanks to everyone who's kept up with the story so far!  
> Next chapter could be the last. Or not. I'm not super sure.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the patience! This is a short one, just a fluffy little breather chapter to break up all the angst. Trigger warning in this particular chapter for a lot of medical talk related to childbirth. (They say 'write what you know', so I went and romanticized the shit out of my job. Oops.)

_1980_

_The house was a mess._

_At thirty-five weeks, Petunia knew perfectly well she wasn’t supposed to be cleaning. Vernon probably didn’t expect her to keep the house shiny, anyway – not as much as she had before becoming an oven for a very small person to bake in. But she liked clean floors and shelves as much as the average housewife, and damn it, she wasn’t going to sit around all day. What was she supposed to do, sit in front of the telly with her feet up on the coffee table and ignore the million things that had to be done? As if._

_She wasn’t even doing anything too strenuous. Just washing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, cleaning the countertops. If she bent down to pick things up a bit too much, well. What her doctor didn’t know wouldn’t get her a lecture on her next appointment._

_The radio on the kitchen counter was playing this particular song that always put her in a good mood. Something about_ Crazy Little Thing Called Love _made it that little bit easier to do whatever chores were next on her list, and she even ended up doing a little dance on her way from one room to the other, which seemed to wake up the baby inside her._

_“Well, good morning.” She greeted her own tummy with a smile. “About time you started kicking Mummy already. Slept in today, did you? Can’t say I blame you. All that kicking you did in the middle of the night must have been exhausting.”_

_Speaking of little Dudley-or-Josephine, the nursery was next. For a room that wasn’t even being used yet, it sure did accumulate a lot of dust. Humming quietly to herself, she climbed up the stairs and –_

_And on the last step, slipped on something wet, having to hold onto the banister for dear life to keep herself upright._

_That was weird. She didn’t remember spilling anything, much less some sort of watery, pale green liquid that smelled faintly like bleach. It pooled at her feet. Wait, shit – her legs were wet, too. Was this stuff coming from her? Was that the water breaking?_

_Yep. Her knickers were absolutely_ drenched.

_So much for cleaning the nursery. Instead, she went over to the phone and dialled her doctor’s number, clutching the edge of her skirt nervously. It wasn’t time yet. She didn’t know a whole lot about pregnancy, but she knew her kid had to bake in there for a little while longer._

_“H-“_

_“Doctor Luft, I think my water broke.”_

_“I’m sorry, who’s this?”_

_Right. Right, yeah, she should have led with that. “Petunia Dursley. Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”_

_“Mrs Dursley, hi. How do you know your water broke?”_

_“Well, I’m leaking water everywhere.”_

_Doctor Luft chuckled. “That would be it, yes. Do you feel any pain? What colour is it?”_

_“No pain, no.” She put a hand on her tummy, as if to check, but it felt no different than a few minutes ago. “It’s – yellowish, greenish? Really light, though.”_

_“Head to the hospital, I’ll take a look. Is the baby moving?”_

_Just then, Dudley-or-Josephine gave her a pointed kick. “Yeah.”_

_“That’s a good sign already. Try to stay calm.”_

_She was anything but calm. As she grabbed her purse, made her way carefully down the stairs, and got on the first taxi she could find, all she could think about was whether or not the baby would be okay. Surely it was still too early to be born, right? Would he or she need the ICU? Shit, was it because she’d been cleaning? Had she endangered her baby’s life by trying to take care of the house?_

_Her heart didn’t stop thumping painfully in her throat until she was lying on her back, legs up on the stirrups, and the doctor pressed the heartbeat monitor onto her abdomen. Dudley-or-Josephine was alive and their little heart was beating as fast as Mummy’s, and everything else could be handled. Or, well. Almost everything._

_“Mrs Dursley, we’re taking you straight to the operating room.”_

_“Excuse me?” There it was again, the panic. “What’s wrong with the baby’s heart?”_

_The doctor reached out a hand to help her sit up. “Nothing. But you see, the greenish colour means it’s what we call meconium fluid. Your baby is safe for now, but we can’t guarantee it’ll continue to be safe, so it’s better for them to be born a little bit early than to wait in there. Now, if you’d like to call your husband or your mother, you have time to make a quick phone call, or the hospital can make it for you.”_

_That’s when it dawned on her that she was alone. In her haste to go to the hospital and make sure the baby would be fine, it hadn’t even occurred her to call Vernon or Mum or anybody else. Now that she’d be going through her first ever surgical procedure, though, she would very much like to have someone else there._

_Vernon would be pissed that he hadn’t been called from the start. She could already picture him grumbling about how she should have called from home, how he would have driven her to the hospital, how it would have been safer. How if anything had happened to the baby, it would have been her fault. He got like that when he was upset. Then again, Mum was probably sick from the latest round of chemo and shouldn’t have to worry, either._

_“If someone could call Vernon, I’d appreciate it.”_

_They said they called him, but she was all alone as someone helped her into a flimsy little gown and gave her a myriad of papers to sign. They took her to the operating room, hooked an IV up to her arm and explained how the anaesthesia worked, and still nothing. She was stung in the back by a long needle – which oddly didn’t hurt, just felt weird and vaguely uncomfortable – and told to close her eyes as the doctors cleaned her up for the C-section, still completely alone._

_Finally, just as they were in the middle of cutting her open, a nurse came barging in with a disgruntled Vernon by her side, mumbling a complaint as he was given a stool to sit next to Petunia’s head. It… Wasn’t_ exactly _a relief._

_“I had to find out my child is being born through a phone call from the hospital.” He huffed. “What, did you just not have the time?”_

_“I called Doctor Luft, he told me to come straight here.”_

_“And the baby would have died if you’d spent two extra minutes letting me know?”_

_She sighed. “I don’t know, Vernon. I didn’t exactly think things through.”_

_“Well, that’s par for the course, isn’t it?”_

_She bit back a much more acid retort. “Maybe you should save that for later. Bit of an inappropriate time, you see.”_

_“What’s inappropriate is for you to be here giving birth alone like some sort of –“_

_“Alright, Mrs Dursley, you’re going to feel a bit of pressure now.” One of the doctors cut off Vernon’s protest._

_“Is this it? Is it the baby?”_

_The answer didn’t come in the form of words. Just as the doctor had warned her, there was the strangest feeling in the world – like someone sucking her insides out with a vacuum cleaner – and then a loud, powerful shriek that could only mean one thing._

_She was now officially a mother, and it was the best feeling in the damn world._

_Maybe Vernon kept talking. Maybe a lot of other things were happening all around. In her mind, though, the moment came down to this tiny, pink, squirming,_ perfect _little creature the doctor was holding up high for her to see, crying loud and proud with the clamped umbilical cord still hanging from his belly._

_(His. It was a boy. Dudley-or-Josephine was now officially Dudley Mathias Dursley.)_

_In the few minutes it took for them to weigh, measure, and clean up her son, she exchanged a look with Vernon and found him emotional for maybe the first time in their lives. Unlike her, he wasn’t crying, but his eyes were wet when he reached over and squeezed her hand as tight as the oximeter on her thumb would allow. In that moment, they were partners, more than they had been at any point until now._

_Later, when Petunia was recovering from the anaesthesia with little Dudley in her arms and no one else around, she spoke to him like she did when he was still in her tummy. Soft, quiet, a sacred little moment that was only theirs._

_“I waited eight months to see your little face.” She lifted him up carefully, still under strict instructions to not raise her head, and pressed his tiny button nose to hers. “Now look at you. You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Gave Mummy quite a fright, though, didn’t you?”_

_Dudley’s eyes were big and bright, somewhere between grey and blue; he watched her face as if he understood every last word. Maybe he did._

_“You know, darling, I’m still not sure I know how to be a mum. But it’s okay, right? We’re gonna learn together. I’ll learn to be a mother while you learn how to be a person. We’re a team, aren’t we?”_

_His little hand wrapped around her finger then, tight, and she understood how some mothers were capable of jumping into life-threatening danger for their children. There was nothing, nothing, she wouldn’t do to ensure that this little boy was safe and happy. She may not have a clue what she was doing, but this she knew – all the cruelty in the world was no match for a mother’s love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long author's note for a very short chapter:  
> 1\. Meconium fluid in and of itself is no longer a reason to have an emergency C-section, especially at 35 weeks, but things were different in the 80s.  
> 2\. Can anyone who's reading on mobile tell me if they see the illustrations at the end of chapters 3 and 4? On my desktop they show up great, but on my phone it's just a blank square.  
> 3\. Next chapter is going to be a) a lot to handle and b) probably terribly inaccurate, but hoo boy am I excited to write it.  
> 4\. Thank you very much for reading and for all the nice comments. You guys are honestly the best. This past week was horribly rough on my mental health, and honestly one of the few things keeping me from doing something stupid and reckless was the fact that I need to finish my WIPs first, both here and on my other account. Silly reason? Yes, absolutely. But it worked. As they say, if it looks stupid but it works, it ain't stupid.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support! I've been trying to fix the images so they show up on mobile, but still haven't figured out a way. Here's hoping that'll change, eh?

1985

When the day began, Petunia didn’t think that in the early evening she would be doing a crossword puzzle at the police station. It feels surreal. So many things left to do, to decide, and there she is, trying to think of a word for the ‘sixth taxonomic classification’. In front of her, Dudley and Harry sit at a wonky little plastic table, colouring pictures from a bin with crayons from another. Up by the door, a television plays the news, providing just enough background noise so the silence won’t be unnerving.

From catching Vernon in the act in the middle of the night to watching Dudley’s heart-wrenching exam a few minutes ago, this is admittedly the most peace she’s had all day.

“Mum, I’m hungry.” Dudley announces, predictably enough. Were it a normal day, she’d be making dinner by now. “Can we go home and eat?”

“Not yet, love.”

“Why? What’re we waiting for?”

“They’re going to bring your father here so it’s safe for us to go.”

Both Dudley and Harry immediately sit up straighter then. “Here? They’re bringing Dad _here_?”

Just as he finishes his sentence, the voice that comes from outside the room is unmistakable. Loud, commanding, and absolutely pissed off. _Speak of the devil._ Knowing fully well that nothing good will come from it, she peeks out the door.

There are two police officers, one on each side of Vernon. His clothes are messy, his hands are cuffed behind his back, and he is _furious_.

“This is an outrage. It’s ridiculous! I’m an honest man, she’s – _there she fucking is.”_ He spots Petunia and a very large part of her wants to hide, but it’s not the part that wins. Rage is the part that wins. With a murmured order for Dudley and Harry to stay back, she comes out to face him with her shoulders back and her eyes narrow.

“You absolute sack of shit.” She watches him struggle against his handcuffs and does not care at all. “Your own son. Your nephew. They’re _five._ ”

“I didn’t do anything.” He huffs.

“Your sperm was on one of Dudley’s plushies, you fucking – “

“And how do you know it was mine? With the parade of men she brings into my house, officer…” What a load of bollocks. She’s never cheated, and even on the unlikely chance that she would do something of the sort, she would _never_ bring someone back home. Both for fear of what the neighbours would say and to avoid exactly what her _own husband_ has been doing for the better part of a year now. The irony isn’t lost on her. Before she can respond, however, Dudley comes running past her and yanks at the officer’s arm.

“Let him _go_! He’s my dad, you can’t take him to jail!”

“Dudley!” To her surprise, it’s Harry – _Harry_ – who runs after his cousin. “Your mum said to stay back!”

“Piss off, Harry, they’re taking my _dad_ to _jail!_ ”

Vernon stomps forward, then, and maybe he just wants to pull himself free from the people holding him back, but it looks and _feels_ like an act of aggression. And then Harry, with wide eyes and clenched fists, puts himself in between the man and Dudley and looks him dead in the eye like he _isn’t_ frightened.

God, he really is Lily’s son.

“You filthy little liar.” Vernon spits. “You’re going to regret this, boy.”

“I’m not scared of you! You lied! Aunt Petunia believed me and she _didn’t_ call me a liar and she let me sleep on the couch!” He’s shaking, visibly, from head to toe, and still faces the very person he’s afraid of without thinking twice.

“The minute they let me go, you little freak, I’ll lock you up in that cupboard and throw the key away, I swear –”

Petunia finds herself standing in front of Harry before she can even think about it. The boy hides behind her to the right, Dudley on the left, and nothing can stop her anymore.

“Enough, Vernon.”

“Oh, so you’re standing up for the boy now?”

“I said _enough._ ” Her voice is a quiet, dangerous hiss, and Vernon’s little beady eyes narrow even more.

“You’re really taking _his_ side?”

“Over yours? Any day.”

“He’s gonna rub off on Dudley, you know.” He smiles in victory, like he’s just found her weakest spot. “Soon enough our son will be growing back the hair you cut and turning teacups into rats like your bitch of a sister. Hell, maybe you will, too.”

In a surge of courage, Petunia takes a step closer to the man. The wicked smile on her lips is nothing but sharp teeth.

“And who’s to say I haven’t started?”

The officers drag him away, but not before she can catch the subtle change in his expression, the delightful little twinkle of fear in his eyes. She wants to laugh. She wants to do a little dance in celebration. She, Petunia Dursley – no, fuck this, _Evans,_ she’s an Evans by blood and always will be _–_ has managed to scare Vernon into silence.

Instead of laughing or dancing, she turns to face the boys and crouches to their level. Dudley’s face is all confusion and hurt, Harry is trembling with the effort not to cry. She wraps them both in her arms, tight.

“Mum, are they really taking him to jail?” Her son’s voice, close to her ear, reminds her that her work is nowhere near done. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be fine, darling. It’s very sweet of you to worry.”

Harry’s little hands clutch her shirt tighter when he speaks. “What’s gonna happen to him there?”

She has a pretty good guess, but it’s not what she’s going to tell them. No good can come from letting these kids know what happens to pedophiles in prison, as much as it appeals to the vengeful side of her.

“He’s gonna learn that what he did was wrong and he’s not supposed to do that to anyone, ever. It’s like time-out, but for grownups who do really, really bad things.”

“Like hurting kids on purpose.”

“Exactly.” She pulls back a little so she can look them both in the eyes, still unwilling to let go of them entirely. “You were really brave, Harry. Standing up to him like that.”

A smile brightens up her nephew’s tear-streaked face. “Really?”

It occurs to her that it’s the first time she’s given him an actual compliment. Hell, the first time she’s hugged him, too. Took her long enough. Before she can really dwell on that realisation, the same officer who took her statement calls her attention with a little pat on the shoulder.

“Alright, you’re free to go home. A social worker will be coming by the house in about a week for a welfare check, and we’ll keep you updated on the trial. Rest assured, your husband isn’t coming back until then.”

“Thank you.” She stands up and reaches out for a polite handshake, but he presses a business card into her palm instead. _Adam Grossmann, child psychologist,_ with a phone number underneath. “What’s this?”

“Your boys are going to need help, Mrs Dursley. More qualified help than you can give them on your own. This isn’t a _requirement_ , but I do recommend that you take them to a therapist. This one here is an old acquaintance of ours.” He smiles and hands her a second card, with a different name and number next to the word _counsellor._ “I think you would benefit from the help, too.”

Right.

Maybe.

No.

In less than a half hour, the three of them are back home, now with no Vernon and very little clue what to do. She orders a pizza – there’s no way in hell she can muster up the energy to cook a proper meal tonight – and they eat pretty much in silence, both Harry and Dudley inhaling their slices while she barely touches hers. Then she tells them to go shower and get in their pyjamas, more to keep some sense of normalcy than anything else.

How do you go back home after _this_ and pretend that anything is normal? How do you _make_ it normal again? She doesn’t know, there’s no manual for this. Maybe keeping it as close to their usual routine as possible is the way to go. Maybe. Possibly.

Then she remembers their usual routine involves Harry sleeping in the fucking cupboard, and knows it’s not going to work that way.

The side of her that stood up to Vernon wants to tear the cupboard apart. How she _ever_ allowed this to happen is something she’d rather not think about right now – a _cupboard_. The tiny little thing under the stairs. While Dudley has _two_ rooms, one for himself and one for his toys. Not that Dudley doesn’t deserve it, mind you, he’s still every bit the lovely little boy he always has been and deserves the whole damn world. But isn’t Harry little, too? Doesn’t he deserve a proper bed, proper clothes and toys? How can she make things right for Harry without making Dudley feel like he’s losing something, or – God forbid – like he’s being punished?

Maybe if she gets him involved in the process. Maybe if he helps her decide. Yeah, that’s a start. But not tonight – there’s been too much tonight already; she won’t make Harry sleep in the cupboard, but she’s sure as hell not forcing Dudley to make any decisions, either. Nor is she letting them out of her sight.

Fuck it, the rules are all over the place anyway.

When the boys come downstairs, clean and dressed, the coffee table has been pushed to the corner and there’s a big nest of blankets and pillows on the living room floor. It’s a little funny to watch as their eyes go wide and they look at each other as if to make sense of it.

“What’s going on?” Dudley tilts his head in confusion. “Why’s there a big ol’ bed on the floor?”

“Well, Mummy wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight without being able to see you two.” She answers truthfully. The very idea of going back to the bed she usually shares with Vernon is a little nauseating. “So we’re camping.”

Harry hesitates. “Us three? You and Dudley and me?”

“Yes, us three.”

“Cool!”

Their lives are making a complete 180, there’s no telling just how catastrophic the effect of all of this abuse will be on them as they grow up, but hey. There’s a _big ol’ bed_ in the middle of the living room, and that is _cool_.

The boys make themselves comfortable in the middle of the nest – Harry still looking unsure, like he’ll be thrown out at any moment; Dudley petting the fluffy blanket like it’s a cat – and Petunia settles on the couch instead, because she may be twenty-eight but her back already hurts. The VCR whirs as it starts to play, the Disney logo comes to life on the screen, and there’s no snoring coming from upstairs. None at all.

Petunia wakes up at several points during the night, from nightmares or anxiety or both. Each time, she opens her eyes, reminds herself that her son and nephew are safe and sound within arm’s reach, and wills herself to go back to sleep.

Except for the one time, long after the tape has finished playing, when she’s awoken by the sound of the kids whispering to each other. Curious, she keeps her eyes closed and listens.

“Dudley, your mum’s sleeping.” Harry protests. Is Dudley okay? Does he need her?

“I had a bad dream, I’m gonna go lie with her.” Dudley’s teary voice makes her want to open her eyes and bring him to the couch immediately, but she hangs on just a little more, to see what they’ll do. One of the changes that desperately need to happen is for the boys to get along, to try and see each other as brothers. It’s not too late yet.

“Wait, no, she taught me something.” _Did she?_

“What?”

“Lie down.”

There’s a rustle of blankets, presumably Dudley complying.

“This is stupid, I’m gonna wake her up.”

“No, look. Gimme your hand.”

Oh.

“Why?”

“She said my mum did this when she had bad dreams. She – she went to your mum’s bed and held her hand and the bad dreams went away ‘cause she was with her big sister.”

_Oh._

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It’s gonna work.”

“But what if it _doesn’t_?”

“It’s _gonna_.”

They both fall silent, then, and Petunia opens her eyes just a sliver. Just enough to see the two cousins lying side by side, holding hands, their breathing slowly becoming more and more even as they fall back to sleep together.

Suddenly, she remembers the word she’d been looking for, back at the police station, when she was trying to fill in the crossword puzzle.

The word was _family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *know* that last part was a bit corny, but I regret nothing.  
> Thank you so much for all the nice comments and kudos. Stay tuned for the next chapter, which might be the last or not, I never know how my stories are going to go until they happen.  
> EDIT (oct 6th): While I have no way of ever knowing for sure, I think I've finally figured out what happened to me. It's not exactly surprising, and I could be entirely wrong, but I feel in my bones that I'm right and the whole story lines up. I don't know how to deal with it, I don't know who to turn to, therapy isn't an option right now and I feel utterly sick. I really don't know what to do. This is the only place I've ever even hinted at something having happened to me, so I'm sorry, but you people have to put up with my rambling for a bit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for putting up with the wait. To make up for your patience, here's an extra long chapter, and I'm already working on the next one.

1985

Petunia decides to let Harry and Dudley sleep in today. Yesterday was immensely stressful, after all - they deserve an extra day to rest and process before they have to go back to school. Not to mention they're still holding hands when she wakes up, which she finds absolutely adorable.

It's bizarre how quiet the house is. With the boys fast asleep and no one snoring upstairs, Petunia feels a little bit like she, too, is still dreaming; she'll have to get accustomed to this new life at some point, but now it's just surreal. No Vernon means no hurry to make breakfast, no tasteless jokes to pretend to laugh at, no unsavory comments about the state of the house or the taste of the food. It's peaceful. Too peaceful. She's not used to it.

More out of a need to keep moving than any other reason, she makes herself some tea and toast and doesn't bother sitting down; there's too much restless energy in her body. Too much to do. She can't decide what to tackle first.

The house needs an exorcism.

It's the best way she can describe it. Purging Vernon's things out of the bedroom, the living room, every corner he inhabited. Maybe dealing with the basement, too, fuck it, let's get all the ghosts out at once. And Harry needs a bedroom and clothes and toys. And Dudley needs to help her decide how to go about that. Her son also needs his own bedroom purged of any other toys that may have been tainted. And she needs to call the therapist (for the boys, not for herself, thank you very much). And she's exhausted just thinking about it.

Maybe the basement will be a good first step. Might as well start from the bottom up, right? It feels logical. Or maybe it's because she promised Harry they could look at pictures, and after talking about Lily last night, it's a little less painful to remember her. With one last gulp of her tea to wash down the last bite of toast, she checks on the boys - still sleeping - and resolutely marches towards a door she only ever opens once a year to bring out the Christmas decorations.

Good God, it's dusty down there. She's kept it organized enough, but that doesn't mean the boxes aren't old and heavy, or that it's any less overwhelming to look at all of it. Come to think of it, there isn't even that much - a box of old photo albums, a few of Mum's clothes, some childhood memorabilia she brought home when she married Vernon. And in a neatly wrapped box, covered in a plastic bag that's managed to keep all the dust away from its contents, the little plush bunny that Lily and James bought for Dudley on his first birthday.

Damn it, it even has the note still attached to it. The one she barely read at the time before banishing the whole thing to the basement.

_ Dear Dudley, _

_ We wish we could be there to celebrate your birthday, but your parents have made it very clear they don't want us to. It has nothing to do with you, we promise. We're sure that next year things will be calmer and we'll be together again, but until then, here's just a little something for you to cuddle with. We love you and will see you soon. _

_ Happy birthday! _

_ Love, your aunt Lily, your uncle James, and your cousin Harry. _

Goddammit, she already wants to cry. Without her consent, an image comes to her head - a vision of how things would have turned out if it had been her and Vernon who died, and her son had ended up on Lily's doorstep instead. Harry and Dudley growing up together, as brothers, equally loved and cared for. Lily tucking them in at night, James telling them stories. Family photos around the house. Dudley asking questions about his parents and receiving an actual answer, perhaps a bit sugar-coated with nostalgia, instead of being told to shut up. Lily dealing with Harry's magic flawlessly, teaching him to control it, at the same time making sure Dudley didn't feel left out because he couldn't do the things Harry could. Everyone happy and safe.

Instead, her sister's son spent four years neglected and mistreated, and both him and Dudley spent at least the past several months being molested.

It's her fault. She's the one Lily trusted. She's the one who went along with locking Harry in the cupboard and taking away basic necessities as punishment; if her husband hadn't turned out to be an actual monster, she probably should have been arrested as well. But she wasn't. She's now the only person who can make sure things are different, better, from now on.

_We're sure that next year things will be calmer and we'll be together again_. It hurts to read, yet she reads it over and over. _We love you and will see you soon._

Dudley should have the toy. His aunt and uncle wanted him to.

Or.

Or she can hide the note and give it to Harry instead. Harry, who's never known his mummy's face. Harry, who doesn't even have any proper toys of his own, just the broken ones that Dudley doesn't like anymore. Who was in the middle of a traumatic physical exam and yet lit up with a bright grin at the mention of seeing photos of his mother.

Before she can make any sort of decision, Dudley's voice calls from upstairs, sleepy and concerned.

"Mum? 'S that you down there?" His little face peeks into the door. "What're you doing? We're late for school!"

"You're staying home today, love." She sticks the note in the pocket of her robe.

"Why?"

"I figured you two could use a little rest. Yesterday was rough and we've got a lot to do today. I'll need your help."

"Are you crying?" He asks.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I'll be right up. Is your cousin up yet?"

"Yeah, he's making pancakes."

Right. First item in the long list of things that need fixing: Harry doing all the chores. She doesn't see anything wrong with having the kids help out at home, but not - not like this. 

All through breakfast, Dudley keeps asking about the boxes she brought upstairs - what's in them, why she wants to go through them now - and she repeats the same thing. They're old belongings she wants their help sorting through. If she continues to act like they're nothing out of the ordinary, maybe she'll believe it, too.

Until, of course, all the pancakes are gone, the dishes are clean, and there's no more stalling. With a deep breath to prepare herself, she goes to the pile of boxes she left by the door and pulls out the one with the bunny, trying very hard to ignore the way Dudley's little face lights up at the sight of a present.

"Harry." She calls before she can change her mind. "The people who dropped you off when you were a baby brought this, too. I guess I forgot about it and just put it downstairs, but here, it's yours. Your mum and dad bought it for you before they died."

Harry's eyes go wide like they did in the exam room, and Petunia carefully focuses on his reaction instead of Dudley's.

"It's - for me? My mum and dad bought me a present?" He still won't reach for the box, so Petunia hands it to him. "When I was a baby?"

"Yes, well. Open it."

Harry does, with so much care, it's painfully sweet. When he sets aside the plastic and pulls out the yellow bunny, he smiles a smile that's absolutely _identical_ to Lily's and hugs the plushie close, pressing his face into the soft fur.

It's adorable. It's heartwarming. And it's a huge oversight on her part not to pay attention to Dudley, whose indignant yell is followed immediately by trying to yank the toy out of his cousin's arms.

"That's _mine_! I get the toys, not you!" He's technically not wrong, but he isn't right, either. Harry just holds the bunny closer, so Dudley turns to her instead. "Mum, make him give it back!"

"Darling, that's Harry's toy, not yours."

"How come _he_ gets a gift and I don't?" Ouch.

"That's not a gift from me, it's from your aunt Lily and uncle James. To Harry. I just forgot to give it to him."

"Yeah, well... They're not here!" And then he tries again to pull the bunny from Harry's arms, and Harry holds on tighter, and there's the distinct sound of fabric being torn as the bunny's forehead splits straight down the middle, almost down to its nose.

Thinking quick, Harry grabs the now injured toy and runs with it to the cupboard, which - yeah, it's expected. Nobody said it would be easy to break old habits. When Dudley starts to go after him, though, Petunia stops him with a firm hand on his chubby little shoulder.

"Mum, that's not fair! He's got a brand new toy and I've got no toys!" He stomps his foot. "Why do you like him more than me now?"

Oh, _ouch_.

"Duds, that's not what this is about."

"It is! It's not _fair_!"

She briefly considers just giving him the fucking bunny, but no, that'd be mean to Harry. She's done the easy thing too many times now and that's why they're in this situation in the first place.

(Is she supposed to yell? At Dudley? Her baby boy? After all he's been through? No, that's not an option either. She'll have to find a way to teach the boys to get along and be patient about it, like Mum would have been. Running with half-baked ideas has been working for her lately, so she does just that.)

"Come to your room, love."

"I just woke up, I'm not sleepy."

"No, I know. I wanna show you something." She gets hit with the realization that this was probably something Vernon said to him at some point. It feels a bit like a brick to the face. "We're just gonna talk, okay?"

Begrudgingly, he goes with her. At least that's something. Making a point of leaving the door wide open, she guides her son to the wall by his desk, where he's taped his most recent drawings. Dudley, predictably enough, still looks as grumpy as ever when she pulls the family drawing off the wall and holds it up to his pouting face.

"What?"

"Did you draw this for school or just 'cause you felt like it?"

"For school, but I put it on the wall 'cause it looked nice." He shrugs. "Why?"

"What was the assignment?"

"The what?"

"What did the teacher tell you to draw, love?"

"My family. It looks cool, doesn't it?"

Petunia sits at the child-sized chair by the desk and holds out the drawing so they can both look at it together.

"Yeah, it looks really cool." She lies, as a mother does. "Walk me through it, Duds. Who's this?" She points to what she already knows represents herself.

"Duh. That's you."

She chuckles. "And you drew me smiling, 'cause I'm happy. Right?"

"Yeah. Look, I made the twinkles, 'cause when you're happy you're always singing the twinkle song." He points to what she can only assume are supposed to be little stars around her head.

"What song?"

"You know! _Crazy little twinkle love_."

She can't resist the urge to squeeze him, he's so goddamn adorable. By now, he's been distracted enough from his bad mood that he hugs back for a moment.

"And this is you?"

"Yeah. And I'm happy too, look at the big smile."

"I know." She puts conscious effort into maintaining the cheerful tone now. "And so's your dad."

"Yeah. Everyone's happy."

"Not _everyone_. Who's this?" Her finger lands on the figure in the corner, far from the other three, that's supposed to represent Harry.

"It's Harry."

"And he's not happy, is he?"

Dudley shakes his head. "No, he's sad."

"Why do you think that is?"

Dudley goes quiet for a moment, apparently thinking very hard about the question. When he breaks the silence, his answer is tentative.

"Because - because he hasn't got a mum or a dad, and I do. So he's jealous."

Good. Good, he's on the right track. "Do you think that's fair?"

"No." Dudley shrugs. "But we can't give him a mum or a dad. You can't like - like buy a mum at the store."

"That's true, you can't. But think about it. What _else_ do you have that Harry doesn't?" She could name a lot of things, but it's better if Dudley comes up with them himself.

"I dunno."

"Think about it, love."

After another silent moment, Dudley sighs.

"I've got two rooms. And Harry doesn't have one. And I've got the cool toys and he only gets the broken lame ones. And I've got Piers and Charlie and Samantha, and he's got no friends."

"See, I don't think that's fair at all. Harry said you won't let the other kids talk to him."

That seems to have been the wrong move, because Dudley's jaw falls open in indignation. He's very dramatic when he's angry.

"He's such a tattletale!"

"I asked him, Duds. He didn't tell on you on purpose."

Dudley huffs. "Well, I don't like it when they play with him."

"Why not?"

"It's Harry! He's _weird_!"

She sincerely hopes it's not too late to break Dudley out of this mindset that she herself is just starting to outgrow. It has to be easier for a kid, right?

"But why do you care if the other kids play with him?"

" _Because_!"

"Don't shout, sweetheart." She reprimands as gently as she can. " _Because_ isn't a good enough answer. Why do you want Harry to be alone?"

Then Dudley, who had been standing by the desk with his mother's arm around him the whole time, breaks free from her and goes to sit in the middle of the bed, pouting intensely. He grabs the nearest plushie and cuddles it close - Petunia would be very tempted to deem the conversation finished if it weren't for the knowledge that her nephew is once again hiding in the cupboard, probably cuddled up with his own plushie, which happens to be the only one he owns and already torn. While Dudley sits in the middle of several others, Harry is scared that they'll take away his bunny that Lily bought.

So she stays on the chair, doesn't try to crowd her son, and gathers up all of her patience to talk to him like the big kid he is. (No, he's not. He's little and upset and hugging an elephant plushie. But he's not a baby anymore, as much as he is _her_ baby. He can understand this.)

"Dudley. Answer me, please."

"I don't want him to be _alone_. I'm not mean." He mumbles, mostly into the elephant. "But I don't want him to play with my friends."

"Why can't you both have friends, though? Think about it. You're friends with Piers, Charlie, and Samantha, right?" He nods. "And they're all friends with each other too. No one's taking anyone away from anyone else. Why can't your cousin be part of the gang?"

"Because they're gonna like him more than me!"

Ah. Looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all.

"Honey, why would you think that? You're a cool kid!"

Her son rolls his eyes and squeezes the toy tighter. "You _have_ to say that, you're my _mum_. I'm dumb and I don't get the jokes and I take forever to do stuff."

Petunia is absolutely done giving him space for now, because there's only so much her heart can handle. In a second she's sitting on the bed next to Dudley and bringing him into her arms; he rests his face on her chest and sighs very deeply. For a moment, Petunia is taken back to all the times her own mother held her close and told her the same things she's about to tell Dudley. The circle of life and all.

"First of all, you are _not_ dumb. You take a little longer to learn than your friends, sure. So what? No one said you had to be the fastest." She says softly, playing with a curl of blond hair. "Look, Duds. Some people are gonna like you more. Some people are gonna like Harry more. Some are gonna like you both in different ways. That doesn't mean you're any worse or any better, it just means people have different opinions."

Dudley sniffles. "Like how I like Piers more than Charlie, but I still like Charlie. Right?"

"Exactly."

"But I don't want to play with Harry at school."

"You don't have to, just don't tell the other kids not to play with him. You can each have your own group of friends. But you were getting along just fine last night, weren't you?"

"A little." Her boy sighs again. "He told me you held his mum's hand when she was scared and it helped. So I held his hand and it helped too."

Right there. _That's_ the attitude she wanted. She's definitely counting this one as a win.

"That's what we need now, Duds. For you and Harry to be like brothers."

"Why's it matter now? It didn't matter before."

Right.

She could, hypothetically, shove all the blame onto Vernon. He's a monster, and it's not like her being complicit in all the abuse made him any less of one. But that... Doesn't sit right in her stomach. She should be able to tell her son the truth, even if it's an awful, awful truth. She wants him to trust her and tell her when he messes up, right? It would be so hypocritical not to extend him the same kind of respect.

So easy, too. And comfortable. And with zero chance of Dudley suddenly starting to realise just what a horrible person she really is.

No. Come on.

"Mummy messed up." She admits in a sigh. "Really, really, _really_ bad."

"What d'you mean?"

Much like how Dudley is holding onto his plushie for comfort, Petunia holds onto her son.

"I guess I was upset with your aunt Lily, and I took it out on Harry. Which I shouldn't have. And your dad would always get so angry when I was a little nicer to him, so I just... Got used to being mean, I suppose. I should have treated you and Harry the same, you're both my boys."

"But - but he's not your son, I am."

"And you'll always be my baby. But Harry needs taking care of, too, he's just as little as you are."

"So you were mean to Harry before 'cause you were mad at Aunt Lily?"

Her chest hurts. Partly from admitting it, partly from how Dudley refers to his aunt as if she were still around, despite the fact that he's never met her. "Yes."

"So Harry's a kid. And you were mean to him. A kid. On _purpose_."

"I guess." She can see the conclusion before he gets to it.

"Are you going to jail too?"

Fucking hell. Maybe she should. Maybe the boys would be better off in foster care, fuck it, get rid of the whole problem at once. Then again, maybe this is a more fitting punishment - facing every last consequence of what she did and how it's affecting not only her nephew, but her son, too.

"Mum?"

"No, love, I'm staying right here." She cuddles him a little tighter, just in case. "But now I have to fix this mess. That means being nice to your cousin, 'cause he didn't do anything wrong."

"Is Harry gonna get my room?"

"See, that's what I need your help deciding. We have two choices. Either we keep the toy room as it is and then you share your room with Harry, or we turn the toy room into a room for Harry and you keep yours. What do you prefer?"

Dudley does a double take then, even pulls away from her embrace to look her straight in the eye. The expression on his face is priceless.

"Hold on a moment." He raises an extremely expressive eyebrow. "If Harry gets the toy room, _does he get my toys_?"

It's enough to make Petunia laugh, a small relief after a hard conversation - though not even close to the hardest they've had lately. She shakes her head and gives her son a solid pat on the shoulder.

"No, your toys are yours. But I want you to share with Harry, okay? Stuff like colouring books, Legos, that's gonna be both yours _and_ his." It'll be quite the adjustment, but they can manage. "What do you prefer, Duds?"

Without missing a beat, Dudley asks, "What'd _you_ choose when you had a sister?"

"We shared until I turned twelve. Then our father got a new job and we turned his office at home into my bedroom, 'cause he didn't need the office anymore and I'd been begging for my own room."

"What'd you like best?"

She thinks for a moment. God, that was centuries ago. She's not even thirty yet, but her childhood feels like a memory of a different lifetime.

"I liked sharing, at least when we were little. My mum would let one of us pick a book and then sit on the other one's bed while she read it to us." She doesn't realise she's smiling until she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. "And we'd get ready for school together. It was nice."

"Then I wanna share with Harry. But _I_ get to pick the bedtime stories."

"You know what, Duds? That sounds like a plan. How about we go tell him?"

They do. Hand in hand down the stairs, Dudley holding his elephant plushie close to his side, looking even smaller than usual. (He's a big kid, but he's her baby, and that's not changing.) When they open the cupboard door, Harry immediately clutches his torn bunny closer, and Petunia has a brief flash of Vernon opening the door to the same sight and still choosing to - _don't think about it_. They're safe now. It's all uphill from here.

"Harry, come on out." Just like last night, she makes her voice gentle; it's a lot easier now. "Want to give me your bunny? He's still yours, I just want to fix his head."

"No, thank you." Harry shakes his head and pets the bunny's forehead, over the spot that has fluff coming out, as if trying to comfort it. She would insist, but what's the point? If the kid doesn't want her to sew his plushie's head back together, it's hardly a pressing issue.

"Alright. Come out, then. Dudley's got something he wants to say to you."

The boy looks from one of them to the other, and she can tell that Dudley is suddenly shy. Much like she did when they were whispering to each other in the middle of the night, she chooses to just observe. It pays off - Harry keeps his gaze firmly on his cousin, does not let go of the bunny for a second, and steps out of the cupboard looking adorably determined.

"What'd you wanna say?"

Dudley frowns. "Mum says I have to share my room and my toys with you. But you _don't_ get to pick the stories."

"I - what?"

"You're moving to my bedroom, 'cause if I'm not nice to you, Mum's gonna go to jail."

"Wait, no." And here she thought she'd made herself clear. "No one's going to jail. Harry, you and Dudley are gonna be sharing this room because your uncle and I should never have put you in the cupboard to begin with. Dudley's toys are still his, but he'll share with you, and we'll get you some new toys and clothes soon. Understand?"

Harry nods, silent and immobile. Underwhelming, really. Petunia thought he'd at least be glad about the change - granted, he's being given the bare minimum, but it's still a step up.

"Don't _you_ have something to say, Harry?" She prods, which seems to snap him out of the momentary trance he's apparently slipped into.

"Sorry! Thank you. I really 'preciate it." He nods again. "What do I have to do?"

Ah. That's what the matter is. "You don't have to do anything."

"I- I don't understand." He looks sad. What the fuck. She tells the boy he's not going to be stuck in the cupboard anymore, and his reaction is to tear up. It makes no _sense_. "It's okay. 'S okay, really, I'll just - I'll stay in the cupboard."

"Harry."

"Really. I don't mind. Thanks for the bunny and for - thanks."

And with teary eyes and a shaky voice, the boy goes right back into the cupboard, leaving Petunia absolutely lost on what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I also hate the ungodly amount of dialogue I put in here, but how could I circumvent that when there was so much to say? A mystery, really. Please tell me if you like it, I'm a lonely bitch.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's, uh. Been a month. My bad?  
> Also: this chapter contains a lot of Petunia's inner monologue, in which she blames herself both for things that are her fault and things that aren't. Now is a good time to remind you that the opinions expressed on this fic are the character's and not the author's. Cheers.

Petunia watches the cupboard door close and is suddenly very, very tired, despite the day having only just begun. Part of her is tempted to just leave it be - she tried, didn't she? She tried, and Harry himself said no. She did her part. Really, he's making it easier for her.

Except that she can't. She doesn't want him in this fucking cupboard anymore, it's no place for a kid. And Dudley, poor thing - he's staring at her with the most heartbroken look on his rosy little face.

"Why's he sad?" Dudley whines, to which Petunia has no good answer. He moves past her and bangs his fist against the door to get Harry's attention, apparently forgetting that it doesn't lock from the inside. "Harry! Get out of there! I just did a nice thing for you and you'd better be nice back or I'll punch you!"

Clearly, he hasn't quite grasped the concept of being nice to his cousin. Also clearly, Harry takes the threat very seriously, because the lights in the living room start to flicker.

Shit.

"Stop doing that!" Dudley knocks harder, and the lights flicker more intensely. "Mum, he's doing that thing again!"

"Duds, let me -"

"Get _out_ , you big freak!"

And then the unmistakable sound of broken glass comes from inside the cupboard.

Shit, shit, shit.

"Dudley, go play." She commands. She can only deal with one traumatized kid's crisis at a time.

"I'm not gonna share my room with him if he keeps doing that."

"We'll talk about it later. Go play, please?"

Thankfully, he does. He marches resolutely towards the living room, grabs a bin of Legos that has been sitting in a corner since he played with them on Wednesday, and turns it over on the floor. That means Petunia is now free to handle a situation she doesn't really know how to begin approaching.

"Harry?" She opens the door and finds the boy trying frantically to pick up the pieces of the lightbulb that shattered. "Hey, let go of that."

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I'll pick it up." He doesn't seem to have heard her; it's like he's talking to himself. "I dunno how it happened. I swear. I just - it just broke. By itself. I know things don't break by themselves but -"

"Harry. Stop."

" - but it's okay, it's okay, I can just pick it up and - and I sleep in the dark anyway so I don't need the light - "

"Harry." She reaches over and very carefully takes both of his little hands, both to still him and to get his attention. It works, but a bit too late - there's a cut in the middle of his palm, superficial but bleeding.

"I - I'm sorry."

"I know. 'S okay. Let's go take care of your hand."

"But the mess?"

"We'll clean it up when we get back. Come on."She takes him by the hand that isn't injured, unable to hold back a little smile when she notices he's still clutching his bunny. Once they get to the bathroom, she lifts Harry up onto the sink, where he sits with a distrustful look in the direction of the faucet.

"I swear I don't know how it happened." He mutters, soft and quiet, wincing as Petunia runs his hand under the water. "It just broke. It's always like that, it just - it just _happens_. Are you mad?"

She shakes her head, examining the boy's hand to be sure it isn't bleeding anymore. Just for good measure, she dries it off and puts a band-aid over the cut, still holding his hand after it's done. He seems to need the reassurance, and maybe she does too, a little bit.

"I know it's not your fault. But you need to learn how to control it, kid."

"I can't. I don't know how, I'm sorry."

Petunia nods. "You can learn, though, can't you?"

"I - yeah, but _how_?"

Good question. Petunia tries to channel her mother, back when she was explaining it to Lily - even though she had no idea herself. Mum was good at this. Solving issues she didn't even understand (because she understood the parts that mattered, didn't she?). God, she misses Mum. The things Mum didn't know were a challenge, something to conquer. To Petunia, they're terrifying.

"Well, it happens when you're scared, doesn't it?" She tries, as gently as possible. It's so strange to be consistently gentle to Harry, but in a good way - in a way that makes her wonder how she had the gall to be anything else.

"But I can't just _not_ get scared. I dunno how to do that yet."

"Everyone gets scared, that's never gonna go away." She shrugs, to which Harry's face falls a little. If he thought there was a point in a person's life where they just stopped being afraid altogether, well, he's got some bitter disappointment coming. "What you need to do is learn how to calm down before something weird happens."

Harry nods, eyes on their linked hands. After a long moment of silent hesitation, he puts his other hand on top.

"I - when I'm really, _really_ scared, like when - with - Uncle Vernon -"

"Okay." She interrupts quietly.

"... Sometimes I just... Stop? Just stop feelin' anything. It's like I'm there but I'm not _there_ , like - like I'm a different kid watching me in the telly. Weird things don't happen then. But I don't know how to get there on purpose either."

Well, that's dissociation in a nutshell. Petunia can definitely relate. The fact that a five-year-old is familiar enough with it that he's come to _expect_ it is nothing short of soul-crushing.

"You don't have to do that." She says quickly. "Actually, don't try to get there on purpose. It only gets worse."

"You feel it too?" Harry snaps up, big green eyes focused solely on her.

Ah, shit.

"Sometimes."

"Oh. Is Uncle Vernon hurting you too?"

Her heart breaks at how matter-of-fact the question is. How natural it seems to Harry that this, of all things, is something they can bond over. That's the best and worst thing about five-year-olds - they haven't quite figured out what's normal and what's absolutely fucking surreal.

"No. He's a coward, he only hurts kids because they can't fight back." She shakes her head, but it feels a bit like a lie. Vernon _has_ hurt her, several times - though a lot of it was her own fault for not speaking up. Not the time to open this particular can of worms. (She's a coward as well, only not quite as cruel. The thought bounces around her head and makes it hard to focus on anything else.)

"So when do you get like that?"

"That's not important, Harry. What I was saying is that you can find a way to make yourself calmer _before_ you start doing things you can't control. It won't always work, but the more you practice, the better you'll be at it."

"What do you mean? How?"

"Remember back in the doctor's office, at the police station?" As soon as she brings up the memory, Harry holds on tighter to her hand. "You were really scared, and then that little tray started shaking, remember?"

"Yeah, but - but I didn't mean to make it do that, I swear."

Petunia nods. "I know. But you also got it to stop shaking, all by yourself."

He thinks for a moment.

"I held your hand like this." He mutters, tentatively. "And you started telling me about my mum. And then the tray stopped."

The fact that the distraction probably only worked as well as it did because it caught him completely off guard is something Petunia won't dare to mention. If it works, it works.

"Good, good. See, it stopped because you started thinking about something else. Something that's nice and not scary."

"So I should think about happy things to keep the scared away."

Petunia nods with a proud smile. "Exactly."

It's a strangely sweet interaction that she's never expected to have with her nephew. Him holding onto her hand, both of them talking softly, nothing terrible happening - she so often has these nice, quiet little moments with her own son, it's something she takes for granted. Not with Lily's boy, though. Harry is skittish and shy (her fault. _Her fault_ ) and it's up to her to help him gain back a bit of confidence. Like this, it feels almost normal.

Until it doesn't, because she has to get to the core of their most recent issue before it's too late.

"Harry, why were you upset when Dudley and I told you about the bedroom?" When he starts to tense up, she shakes her head. "Relax. I'm just trying to understand, okay? It's okay if it doesn't make a lot of sense, just tell me what's going on."

Instead of talking, Harry pulls the bunny onto his lap with one hand, keeping a firm hold on hers with the other. Only when he's got a thin little arm safely around his bunny does he speak, soft and hesitant, with half of his face tucked into the fur.

"Do we _have_ to talk about it?"

"We do."

"I just... What happens in jail?"

This question again? "Bad people learn what they aren't supposed to do. Why, are you worried for your uncle?"

"No. I mean - yes. I mean - sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." She dismisses it quickly. "But why're you asking?"

"I mean like - what _happens_? Do people get hurt there?"

_Yes_. "Sometimes, but from fighting with each other. It's just a big building with little rooms for each person."

"Do they lock the bad people up in the little rooms?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. And then when they're not bad anymore, they get out?"

"I guess so."

They're silent for a moment, while Petunia watches Harry's face go through an entire journey. Confusion, then understanding, then horror. Guilt? What does he have to feel guilty about?

"So - so I'm gonna share Dudley's room 'cause I'm not bad anymore. And - and - and you're teaching me to control the stuff I do 'cause you don't want me to be bad again. But if I'm bad again, you're gonna have to lock me in the cupboard until I'm good, right? 'Cause we don't have a _little_ room, only _big_ rooms, so it has to be the cupboard."

Her heart shatters. That's a horrifying thought for anyone to handle, let alone a small child - the idea that he's done something so bad, he's been forced to sleep under the stairs for most of his life to learn a _lesson_. She caused this. She's the reason - fucking hell, she should be rotting in jail right next to Vernon. This is so much worse than she ever thought it was. If only she'd paid attention. If only she had _cared_.

Without a word, she wraps the boy in her arms, tight, like it'll solve something - like it'll keep them both from breaking.

Unlike her son, he immediately clings to her. Face buried in her shoulder, little fists grabbing handfuls of her shirt, the plushie squished in between them. Drinking in every ounce of affection he can get, the poor baby. The fact that he trusts her immediately and implicitly, despite everything, makes her feel even more guilty than if he'd pushed her away.

Not all is lost, but some is. Both Petunia and Vernon, to different degrees, took advantage of all the unconditional trust this little boy gave them freely. She's a monster too.

"Harry..." She doesn't trust her voice to stay steady above a whisper. "Harry, you're not a bad kid. You never have been. I'm so sorry."

"Why're you sorry?"

"We hurt you. Me and your uncle." The admission stings on its way out of her throat.

"No, you didn't. Uncle Vernon hurt me. Not you."

God, she wishes it really were that simple. Putting it in words for the very person she helped traumatize makes her want to fucking disappear altogether.

"I put you in that cupboard." She sighs. "I didn't take care of you. That's a kind of hurting, too."

Harry's tiny little body starts to shake in her arms.

"But that's 'cause I'm bad."

"No, it's because I was being mean to you."

"But why?"

"Because _I'm_ bad." She's given up on trying not to cry - how many different times has she cried in the past 24 hours? Jesus fucking Christ, is it always going to feel like this? "Not - not like your uncle. I never _wanted_ to hurt you. But you're my nephew, I'm supposed to take care of you, and I didn't do that because I was mad at your mum. That's not what a good person does."

Harry's grip on her shirt tightens, then, and once again, he's crying too.

"I don't want you to go to jail."

She's quick to shake her head. "I promise I'm not going anywhere. What I am gonna do is start taking proper care of you, and that means you having a real bedroom and your own things."

"So I'm not going back to the cupboard? Never, ever?"

"Never, ever."

"Even if I'm really bad and keep doing weird stuff 'cause I can't make it stop?"

"Never."

This time, he accepts with an emphatic nod against her shoulder, and neither of them are ready to let go of each other yet. It feels like a new beginning, in a way - holding her nephew close, rubbing up and down his back in a soothing motion, while he clings to her and slowly steadies himself, breath by breath.

Only when he's completely calm again does she speak, wiping the tears off her own face.

"You wanna go through the photo albums with me?"

"Yeah!"

The smile on Harry's face is a small victory. He hops off the sink, they head back to the living room, and although there's still a vast amount of guilt eating at Petunia's chest, she forces herself to push it down. She'll have another, bigger, more embarrassing meltdown later.

Minutes later, they're on the couch, the three of them - Dudley didn't want to get away from his Legos until he saw Harry sit next to his mum; then he quickly assumed his position on the other side of her. She sits in between Dudley, with his little face resting on her arm, and Harry, idly playing with the bunny's ear. The album rests heavily on her lap; she takes one deep, steadying breath before opening the first page.

She remembers making this very album before her wedding. Mum had insisted on it - "it'll be like a highlight reel of your life so far, darling" - and they'd sat together on the floor, several family albums scattered around them as they chose Petunia's favourite pictures from each one. It was a nice afternoon, with tea and cookies and hours of reminiscing with her mother.

God, she remembers Mum being adamant about leaving space for new memories as well. Remembers sighing as she filled the empty slots with photos of her wedding, of Lily's wedding, of family gatherings and increasingly rare meetings with her friends. Of Mum's first chemo session, because she'd wanted a 'before' - Petunia, not Mum; Mum knew the 'after' would be her obituary.

It's oddly nostalgic to now sit with her son and nephew and show them these carefully curated moments. Watch them react to snippets of her life she never quite managed to forget.

Dudley is completely fascinated by the fact that he had grandparents at one point. With both Petunia's and Vernon's parents being long gone, he's mentioned quite a few times that his friends had grandparents and he didn't, and how unfair it was. Before, Petunia had always avoided talking about them (the time-honoured tradition of burying any topic that gave her feelings) but now is the time to indulge in the nostalgia. He points out excitedly how Petunia's hair now looks the same as Mum's, gets a kick out of Dad's funny mustache, old-fashioned even for the time. Asks what happened to them, if she was sad when they died. When she says that yes, of course she was sad, he kisses her cheek and assures her that it's okay, with all the confidence a five-year-old can manage.

On her other side, Harry listens with quiet interest until they get to Lily. Specifically, one of Petunia's favourite photos - herself and Lily, aged eight and five respectively, hanging upside-down from a tree branch and laughing. It's a sweet memory from simpler times, and she finds herself smiling along with the boy as he looks from her to the picture and back.

"This is my mum?" He asks, though he knows the answer. "This is my mum. When she was little."

Dudley's chubby little finger points directly at the photo. "Harry does that too! He goes to the top of the jungle gym and hangs there."

"I do!"

Harry loves the discovery, and Petunia is rather amused to know the Evans legacy of pretending to be a bat on the playground lives on.

They ask more questions. Who's this, who's that, when was this party, how'd she break her arm. Harry takes in every piece of information about his mummy with delight - how she loved mushrooms, had a phase where she was obsessed with the ocean, constantly stole Petunia's jumpers and never remembered to close the damn windows. It's odd, after all this time, to remember her so casually; not as the woman she deeply resents, but as the baby sister she loved and lost. Emphasis on the love. Loss is already present in the small, everyday reminders she doesn't need to bring attention to.

Surprisingly, Dudley is interested too; in fact, he's almost as curious about his auntie as Harry is. Asks if she ever met him, if she liked him. The temptation to show him the note she and James sent along with the bunny is strong, but she keeps it in her pocket and just tells him an emphatic 'yes'. Even more surprisingly, they're both curious about Petunia's life as well - she's apparently been underestimating just how much she's always avoided talking about the past. At their request, she tells them how English was her favourite class and how she wanted to become a librarian; they ask why she didn't, and she just shrugs it off. "Life turned out differently", she says. (Why _didn't_ she? The answer would require more introspection than she wants to get into today, so she doesn't.)

It's all quite lovely until the photo of her seventeenth birthday punches all the air out of her lungs at once.

She doesn't really know why Mum insisted on keeping this one in the album. It's an okay picture, nothing all that special about it; maybe she just thought it was a pleasant memory. Petunia by the table, Mum and Dad on either side of her. Around the table, a handful of her friends. Off to the side, Lily, with her arm around the one friend their parents allowed her to invite - so she'd have someone to hang out with and wouldn't bother her sister's party.

Severus fucking Snape.

This was before he raped her. Back when he was nothing more than Lily's annoying friend from two blocks over. It still makes her throat close up entirely.

"Mum?" Dudley pats her arm. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

She just might. But she can't just _leave_. Can't keep looking at his greasy face, either. She ends up frozen in place for maybe a minute, maybe a whole day, she has no fucking clue.

"Aunt Petunia?"

"Mum? Is this Harry's dad?" Fucking hell. _That_ snaps her right out of her trance, if only to shake her head. "His mum's hugging him."

"No, no. That's just her friend." Her voice is hoarse and quiet, exactly like when she got home that one night; the chances of throwing up are still very, very high.

Harry's little hand rests timidly on her shoulder then. "What's wrong?"

Fuck it. Fuck it, Snape doesn't get to take this away, too. She puts one arm around her son, flips the page, and puts the other arm around her nephew.

"Nothing's wrong." She's going to speak it into existence if it kills her. "Let's just look at some more pictures, yeah? We're almost done with this album."

It's not smooth sailing anymore. The nostalgia feels bitter now, overwhelming; Petunia wants to close the album and forget about it all. Preferably forever. Of course, that's not what she does - she holds the boys close, leaves the task of turning pages to Dudley, and tries not to dissociate _too_ hard while telling them the stories she was so excited to remember just minutes ago. (She's pathetic. Just the sight of a fourteen-year-old Snape put her in a state like this. It's been almost a full decade. Her son and her nephew were being molested for months, with the last time being less than forty-eight hours ago, and here she is, drawing strength from _their_ presence instead of the other way around. _Pathetic_.) 

In a tone that borders on robotic, she provides little details about weddings, her pregnancy, the ice cream parlour where she met Vernon, the pretty girl with darker blonde hair in the same uniform as her. How long has it been since she spoke to Dorothy beyond a Christmas card exchange? Ages. God, they used to be inseparable. Mistaken for sisters sometimes, with their similar build and hair colour and being together so often.

Why did they stop talking? Her head is fuzzy, it's hard to think. They never had a proper fight. Little bickering matches now and then, nothing bigger. Was it Vernon who told her to stay away? Sounds like him. Maybe it was. She obeyed, though, so it was her fault regardless. She'll make that right, too, at some point.

But not today. Today she's struggling to make it through a goddamn photo album.

At least this time, no one has to go through it alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you've been with me so far, and as always, thank you all so much for the support!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following flashback might as well be titled 'Author Gets Far Too Involved In Minor Character's Backstory And Is A Little Gay For Her Own OC', but hopefully it'll be enjoyable to read. Big trigger warning in this whole chapter for DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS of suicidal ideation. There's also some talk of Christianity, very slight homophobia, and what happens after death (but no, no one significant dies). Thank you immensely for the support you've been giving me with your lovely, lovely comments, I appreciate each and every one of them.

_1975_

_Sleepovers at Dorothy's were usually a very lively time, with popcorn and gossip and an impressive collection of hair products she always let Petunia try on. Tonight, however, Dorothy was more than a little subdued, and Petunia wasn't about to just pretend she hadn't noticed._

_"Don't tell me it's about a boy." She sat in the middle of her friend's bed, watching as she went through the painstaking ritual of wrapping long strands of hair around her head and pinning them in place. Dorothy's quest to straighten her hair through any means necessary was a part of her personality by now; Petunia sometimes joked that one day she would start to iron it like a shirt. "Well?"_

_" **What's** about a boy?"_

_"That sour mood you're in."_

_Dorothy sighed. "Yes, but not in the way you're thinking."_

_"I'm all ears, love."_

_For a moment, instead of answering, Dorothy concentrated very hard on finding the right bobby pin in a box of identical ones. Then, finally, she picked one up and resumed her task, making eye contact with Petunia through her vanity mirror._

_"You know my neighbours across the street? There's a boy who's about our age, maybe like a year or two older. He - well, apparently he killed himself."_

_"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Were you close?" What the hell was she even supposed to say?_

_"No, no, I barely spoke to him. 'S just sad. He was our age, Tunia. **Our** age."_

_Pinning the last strand of hair into place, Dorothy came to sit next to Petunia on the bed, looking at the wall as if it held all the answers she needed._

_"How... How'd he do it?"_

_"Hanged himself with a tie. Or that's what they're saying, anyway. I don't really trust the gossip."_

_Jesus. That - well, that was one way to go, alright. She figured she'd probably go for something a bit less painful if it was her, but at the age of eighteen, the thought of ending her own life had never once crossed her mind. Not seriously, anyway. She wondered what sort of inner turmoil would drive a boy who was barely twenty to make this kind of decision._

_Dorothy's thoughts, however, seemed to be going in a different direction._

_"Tunia? What do you think happens?"_

_"I mean, I'm assuming it hurts a lot." She chuckled, to which Dorothy shook her head with a small, unamused smile._

_"No, I mean after."_

_"After death?"_

_"Yeah."_

_She'd never really thought much about it. When Dad died, four years ago, she'd convinced herself that he went somewhere good - somewhere pleasant and calm, just like he deserved. He'd been a good man, her father. Gone much too soon. The specifics weren't something she was very interested in; her family had never been particularly religious, unlike Dorothy's, who hung a crucifix on every wall of their house. (The result was slightly ominous.)_

_"Heaven or Hell, I guess." She shrugged. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could swear she saw Dorothy deflate even further. "What do **you** think happens?"_

_"I don't know. 'S just scary, the whole idea. Like, what's the cutoff?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"How bad do you have to be to be bad enough to go to Hell? How good do you have to be to be good enough to go to Heaven? And like - fuck, I get too into this if I think too much." True to her word, she was gesticulating wildly, a slightly frantic edge to her voice. "Think of it like this. It's forever, right? That's the whole deal. Eternity. So you might get punished **forever** for something you didn't even choose to do!"_

_That didn't make sense. A person couldn't be bad without making the wrong choices. It wasn't so much about intent as it was about the results of it, and that was one of the very few things Petunia was absolutely sure of._

_"Like what?"_

_"Like - I don't know. Having thoughts about the wrong kind of people."_

_"Dodie, what are you on about? Thoughts aren't a sin."_

_Dorothy pulled a pillow onto her lap, visibly upset - though Petunia couldn't quite figure out why._

_"That's another thing. God is good, I know that. He loves all His children. Even the ones who fuck up. But then - how is it fair that we don't get another chance?"_

_"Maybe we do." Petunia offered. "Maybe Hell is just for really, really bad people. Like murderers and shit. Not people like us." Snape, if there were any fairness in the world, was definitely headed there. Not that she was going to bring it up._

_"I guess that makes sense. But it doesn't seem right that sinners would get into Heaven, either. Anyway - I don't like the idea of it being forever. For anyone."_

_Sighing, Petunia shifted around until she was lying face-up on the bed, staring straight up at the ceiling. She had come to Dorothy's to have a fun, lighthearted night with her best friend, not to think about death and whether she was good enough to go to Heaven after her own. Not to mention whether Heaven and Hell existed in the first place. But things never went according to plan for the two of them, did they?_

_"What about reincarnation?" She suggested without much conviction. "You finish this life, then move on to a new one."_

_For a long moment, they were silent. Then Dorothy reached out to play with Petunia's hair, which was usually fine - usually she enjoyed it. Not tonight. Not when her third unwilling encounter with Snape had been less than 24 hours ago. She pulled away in silence; Dorothy's hand didn't follow._

_"Sorry. 'S all tangled." She muttered as an excuse._

_"Don't be sorry, love. If you don't want it, you don't want it. Not a big deal." Ah, if only it worked like that. "I like that idea. Reincarnation, I mean. Whatever you fuck up in this life, you get the chance to make up for it in the next. It's not really Christian, though, is it?"_

_Petunia shrugged, half of her mind in the conversation, the other half still stuck in the embarrassment of being so negatively affected by a simple, innocent touch from her best friend._

_"It's not **not** Christian, though. Maybe it's a mix of both. You go through a certain number of lives and... I don't know, accumulate points until you get a ticket to Heaven. And if you fuck up really bad, like you kill someone or something, you drop out of the game and go to Hell."_

_That, finally, got Dorothy to lighten up and laugh. Petunia liked her laugh. It always sounded so nice and genuine, she couldn't help but join in._

* * *

1985

They still sleep in the living room for three consecutive nights. First because everyone is still scared, then because Harry's bed arrives the next day and Petunia hasn't finished cleaning out the master bedroom. Then, on the third night, just because the boys asked for it - this time, she sleeps on the floor right next to them, finding them holding hands in the middle of the night and giving into the urge to wrap her arm around them both.

On the fourth night, she tucks them into their separate, equally comfy beds, and it's supposed to feel like a fresh start. Just like her mother did for so many years, she lets Dudley pick out a book and sits on Harry's bed to read it for them; her son is fast asleep by the end of page four, while her nephew holds on until the very last word before closing his eyes. As she leaves, she reminds them both in a whisper that they can come to her if they get scared. Then, as she lies alone in the big, empty bed that's now entirely hers, she sort of wishes one of them would. At least if she held Dudley through the night - or Harry - she'd be looking after someone and wouldn't have time to feel scared as well.

She's the adult. She's not supposed to feel like this. The boys are _five_ and they're dealing with this entire situation better than her.

_Weak, weak, weak._

When they come back from school on the fifth day, Harry is _beaming_. It's the happiest and most talkative she's ever seen him - while he and Dudley set up the table for dinner, he goes on and on about how he made a friend called Jessie, and she taught him how to do a cartwheel, and they built a sandcastle together. It's incredible how fast he's been improving since Petunia decided to let him properly be a kid. Not to mention Dudley doesn't seem to mind much; this Jessie girl isn't a part of Dudley's gang, he's not worried Harry will outshine him, and everyone seems happy. It gives her a little hope that maybe, just maybe, things are looking up.

On day six, she finally manages to make an appointment with the therapist. It's a big debate around the house - Dudley doesn't want to talk to him on the grounds that it's _'stupid'_ , and Harry doesn't want to talk to him because _'what if he says something wrong'_.

"There's no 'wrong' thing to say to a therapist, Harry." She assures him yet again, busying herself with ironing clothes and willingly ignoring the mess of Play-Doh on the coffee table. The boys are playing together, that's the important part. Besides, Play-Doh doesn't leave stains. It's fine, it's fine. Bigger fish to fry and all that. "It's not a test. Just say what you want to say."

"What about - what about the _stuff_?"

She sighs. "What stuff?"

"Y'know. The -" he lowers his voice to just above a whisper. "- the weird stuff."

At some point, she'll have to tell him to just call it magic, but today is not that day. Besides, she hadn't even considered that aspect - what if he does mention his magic to the therapist? Will it get them in trouble? Then again, what if he _doesn't_ mention it and then the therapy isn't as effective? What if Harry has to hold onto trauma because he's too scared to talk about his magic, and it's her fault again? On the other hand, what if he does talk about it and gets sent to a psych ward - what if _Petunia_ gets sent to a fucking psych ward because of this?

Goddamn.

"You know, that is a good question." She lets out a deep breath. "I don't know."

"I won't say anything."

Dudley scoffs. "Yeah, you'd better not. He's gonna think you're crazy."

"I'm not _crazy_!" Harry argues, then immediately looks to Petunia to check if he just crossed a line. "Sorry."

"You're not crazy, Harry. If you want to talk about those things, you can. And Duds, you have to talk to the therapist, too."

"At the same time?"

"Yeah, but not together. It's a clinic. I made an appointment with Mr Grossmann for Harry and Mr Lennox for you."

"But _why_ do I have to talk to him? Are we just gonna sit there and talk?" Frustrated, Dudley takes the dough he was working on and squishes it, blending the colours together. Hey, at least this is a way he can take his anger out without hurting himself, his cousin, or anyone else. Progress.

"I don't know, Duds, I've never been to a therapist."

"I don't wanna go!"

She's tired. She plays the mum card.

"Well, it's not for you to decide. You're both going, and I don't want to hear a peep about it."

"That's not _fair_!"

Throwing the dough at Harry, Dudley stomps his little feet all the way up to his bedroom and slams the door; Petunia doesn't follow him.

They go to the therapist anyway, on day nine. Both kids come out of their sessions crying, and that night, they both come to her bed, rubbing their eyes and mumbling about nightmares. She has to remind herself over and over that this is the right thing to do, that she's not fucking up again. That they'll be back next week, and the next, and every week after that.

There are good moments, too. Like when Harry, looking remarkably serious, hands her his bunny and sits by her side while she sews its forehead back together. When she's done, she points out that they have matching scars now, much to the boy's amusement. Or when she signs Dudley up for boxing, as per Mr Lennox's suggestion, and he comes home after his first class with the cutest, brightest smile on his little pink face. ( _"It's fun, you get to punch stuff! And the coach has a whole bunch of tattoos! Mum, can I get a tattoo when I grow up?"_ When he grows up, it won't be her decision anymore, so she says he can.)

It makes her feel like she's doing something right. The boys are recovering, she's helping them get there, they'll be fine. They'll be fine, right?

Halfway through the second week, Petunia calls up Dorothy, for the first time in _years_ outside of a quick Christmas or birthday call. She remembers now why they grew apart - Dorothy never put up with Vernon's bullshit, and Vernon would get home and whinge endlessly about it every time they met. It became easier to just... Not see her. (How many times, in how many different ways, did she erase herself for Vernon? _Don't think about it._ Though at some point, she really should.)

They stay on the phone for almost two hours, updating each other on their lives and talking about everything under the Sun. God, she hadn't realised how much she'd missed Dorothy, her easy laugh and the barest hint of a Scottish accent on the edge of her words. They hang up with an agreement to meet for lunch on Saturday, and when the boys get home from school, Petunia is absentmindedly singing _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ around the house.

On Saturday, the three of them spend all day with Dorothy and her... Roommate? Petunia thought it'd be in poor taste to ask, and Dorothy didn't offer an explanation, so she's going with 'roommate'. Sitting in a small house surrounded by trees, with elbow-length hair in its natural curly state and a flannel shirt she wouldn't be caught dead in when they were younger, Dorothy looks perfectly comfortable. _Happy._ There's still a gold crucifix hanging around her neck, and the same gentle smile on her face, but other than that, it seems like she's changed completely, into a more relaxed, updated version of her old best friend. Figures - they're _adults_ now.

Adults who wash the dishes together while Harry and Dudley play in the living room with toys they brought from home. Who talk about work with a mixture of passion and exasperation, as Dorothy tells stories of her job as a photographer, her roommate chimes in now and then with comments about her students, and Petunia just listens intently. Her own job as a full-time mother, aunt, and - until very recently - wife isn't quite as interesting. (Her plan was to stay away from the topic of Vernon altogether. Dudley drives that plan straight into the ground when Dorothy asks where Vernon is and he casually replies with _'my daddy's in jail'_ , which makes for some... _Interesting_ conversation. She doesn't bring up details, just says it's a long story and they're getting a divorce, and bless her, Dorothy doesn't insist - but her roommate keeps giving Petunia these strange looks all afternoon; meaningful ones that she can't decipher the meaning of. Concern? For a woman she's never met? Pity? Empathy? Is there really a difference?)

They have fun together, they laugh like nothing's changed. Petunia hadn't realised how much she missed talking to people her own age, how isolated and small her life became since marrying Vernon; now, it feels like there are all sorts of possibilities open for her. She can have her own life and live by her own rules, taking care of herself and the kids however she sees fit. She could pursue a job, too, maybe - once the divorce is final and the boys have recovered a bit more.

Life, as it always has, goes on.

On good days, she looks after the house and the children, and her heart feels lighter than it has in years. She takes Dudley and Harry to playdates (Harry's excitement for his first playdate with Jessie is the cutest thing she's ever seen) and makes a point of being a little more social, too, making small talk with the other mums and even accepting when one of them invites her inside for tea while the kids play. It feels like a transgression, somehow. Vernon never _forbid_ her from making friends, of course, but he did always have something negative to say about the people in her life; when she drives back home that afternoon, there's a smile on her face and a loud thumping in her chest as she reminds herself she won't have to deal with any sort of repercussion. It feels like freedom.

On bad days, it's like a physical weight has lodged itself in her chest, making her head foggy and slow. She still cooks and cleans and looks after her son and nephew, but everything is a little too much; putting on a smile for them is exhausting, and she finds herself snapping at even Dudley for small mistakes or too-loud toys. Later she'll give them a treat and a hug in lieu of an apology, and it's fine, it's fine. Harry is skittish for hours after a scolding, no matter if it's for something he actually did wrong or just an overreaction on her part, but he, too, calms down after a long hug and a kiss on the forehead. (She can't always muster up the guts to say she's sorry when she overreacts, but she does always let them know it's not their fault if it really isn't. It feels like a good enough substitute.)

On _really_ bad days, Petunia doesn't get out of bed until Dudley's alarm clock starts quacking in the next room, even though she's been awake for at least an hour by then. She makes sure they have _something_ to eat and look presentable enough for school, sends them off with very few words, and then drags herself back up to her bedroom, where she'll spend most of the morning and afternoon staring at the wall. Sometimes she cries; mostly, she just loses herself in elaborate fantasies of how much better the world would be if she weren't in it. How easy it would be to just... Give up. Disappear. The part of her that would normally be horrified at the idea of Dudley and Harry coming home to her dead body takes these days to play the scenario over and over; how they'd cry and then get over it and life would move on. _Better._

It's tempting. Her bathtub, a bottle of sleeping pills and another of wine. The drowsiness taking over until she falls asleep one last time. The boys will call the police and tell them she's not waking up, and then someone will take them away to a better home, a full family, someone who knows what they're doing and will give them all the love in the world. They'll grow up and stop missing her, only rarely remember she existed. When that little bit of anger manages to peek through the thick fog in her brain, the fantasy morphs into something more dramatic, more violent - a motel room and a sharp knife plunging into her carotid artery, painting the walls and ceiling and bed with her blood. She'll rock the boat, alright. The world will know she existed, that she _wasn't_ normal, that she was _hurting._ Everyone who's ever hurt her will hear of it and live with the guilt their entire goddamn lives, as they fucking _should._ Her death will be a lesson. She hasn't been of much use in life, but she can at the very least be this. She'll do it, quick and easy, and then...

Then what?

At eighteen, when she discussed the idea of life after death with Dorothy, she was so certain of a happy ending - so certain that wherever she was going, it would be good and she'd have nothing to worry about. That she wasn't one of _those_ people, that her sins were small enough to earn at least a second chance instead of immediate doom. Now, she's not quite so sure. Does she deserve forgiveness? If there's a Hell, is that where she's headed? _Is_ there a Hell in the first place? What is it like to die? Does it hurt? Will she get to see her body lying motionless on her last location, or will she immediately disappear, disintegrate? Will her soul stick around to see the mess? It used to be just a hypothetical scenario, something to think about with distant interest when someone else died. Now that it's her own death she's considering, it's absolutely petrifying. It frightens her enough to keep her from trying, at least for another day.

She can always give it one more chance, and if that doesn't work, she can kill herself tomorrow. And then tomorrow she'll tell herself the same. Over and over until she snaps, or things get better, whichever comes first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the Wikipedia article with a list of suicide prevention hotlines in case you need it.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I promise the next chapter won't take this long, yeah?  
> Also, I'm curious. If you're about to comment, can you please tell me how you found this fic? I'm asking because most gen fics get very little attention, and mine's been getting a lot recently (which I am absolutely delighted by). Is it on someone's rec list? If it is, I'd love to contact them and say thanks.
> 
> Take care of yourselves, darlings.


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